


(I think I made you up inside my head.)

by NotManTheLessButNatureMore



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Overdose, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Robin is a god send, Strike is his usual disaster self, TW for hallucinations and perceived mental instability, WILL ADD RELEVANT TAGS AS STORY PROGRESSES, Wardle is the embodiment of smh when it comes to Strike, cause why make things easy, poetry!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-06-26 13:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19768846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotManTheLessButNatureMore/pseuds/NotManTheLessButNatureMore
Summary: When it appears as though Cormoran has begun to hallucinate it's not long before things spin out of control. With the help of the others, Robin and Strike must figure out what is happening but as the investigation deepens they discover more questions than answers.





	1. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *falls into the room half crying, half laughing holding this fic out to you in my hands*
> 
> Hello my friends, please don't let me write any more case fics with multiple chapters again I'll die 😂😂 Honestly this thing has been A TRIAL and I don't even know if the summary makes sense and I just can't deal anymore 😂😂 
> 
> This is dedicated to under_my_blue_umbrella and libraryv because they are so lovely and kind and supportive, and also to anyone else that witnessed my breakdowns on tumblr over this thing 😭 Also also, shoutout to this lovely little fandom being so fun and nice and supportive! Woo for us!
> 
> Disclaimer: I have written and rewritten this thing so much that I have not one ounce of objectivity left and it could be terrible and it could be totally out of character and PLEASE LORD let the ending make sense. Also, please don't let the fact that this took so long lull you into thinking it's a masterpiece, my brain is just a very confused and tired place 😂 I therefore apologise to any that gets their hopes up and is disappointed but also *cries* please be gentle cause my soul has perished a million times writing this thing and I am small and tired and doing my best. Also if it does seem out of character (I struggled with that) then please hold out hope and wait until chapter 6 or 7 before making me walk the plank, muchas gracias.

**Chapter 1**

**I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead**

There was a rushing sound in his ears that seemed to speed up and slow down with his breathing, which was ragged if his heaving chest was any indication. Nick’s face had swam into view a few moments ago but as his eyes traced the room he could no longer find him. His sight now contained nothing but huge blotches of colour, blue and grey but predominantly red. Someone was holding his wrist too tight and he could feel their fingernails biting into his skin every time he tried to pull away. He wanted to tell them that his skin felt like it was crawling with ants and their strong hold was just making it worse. He slammed his eyes shut and saw stars trailing across his lids.

The hand on his wrist disappeared and then Strike felt a coldness spread through him. The shadows swimming above him morphed into one solid dark shape and then a cacophony of muffled sounds splintered through his head causing him to flinch. More hands were on him and he felt his chest being pushed down against the floor from where it had risen. There was something wrong, he wanted to tell them, he had to get away, he needed them to stop. The colours of the room were all becoming too saturated and framed the dark shape in front of him so that it loomed closer and closer. Soft fingers came to rest along his jaw and a thumb grazed his bottom lip and suddenly with striking clarity Cormoran saw a face inches from his own.

* * *

_One week previous_

It was a freezing cold night. The winter chill hadn’t quite given way to Spring yet and Strike was shuffling down Tottenham Court Road with his coat collar pulled up around his neck. The last tube had terminated at Goodge Street due to planned engineering works, or so Strike had found out when he jolted awake to a middle aged woman cheerily telling him that he’d have to get off if he didn’t want to end up in the bowels of London for the night. The street was quiet, it was midweek so only a few lonely souls and hand-holding couples in office attire peppered the paths as he walked along the road towards the construction cranes that signalled Denmark Street.

Strike paused for a moment in the doorway of the closed Waterstones to light a cigarette. He looked up as the beams of a car caught his attention and saw Robin crossing the road ahead of him from the opposite side. The streetlights caught the gold threads in her hair as she hurried across the road and he caught a glimpse of cheeks reddened by the cold. She still had her shopping bag from earlier, she’d popped out during lunch to get tea for the office and had come back with an array of t-shirts with various slogans on them from Primark. She had recently decluttered, he was informed, and therefore no longer had enough clothing that could pass realistically as college-student-in-the-middle-of-a-dissertation attire. If their plans for the week went ahead she would be going undercover as a Masters student at King’s College to try and get some evidence of an extra marital affair that the wife of a professor was adamant was happening on campus only. Not the most exciting work, Robin had complained, but that kind of work was a steady source of their income.

Strike quickly thrust his matches back into his pocket and set off to catch her. She was already down the road and would make it around the corner to Oxford Street before him. He shouted her name without much hope and quickened his pace but it was no use. _What’s she doing on her own this late?_ he wondered, before realising that she was probably heading for the tube. He pulled out his phone and slowed down, his leg was starting to give out to him and anyway she’d wait for him once she knew he was behind her. He watched as she disappeared down the end of the road as it curved ahead of him slightly. He imagined her waiting at the lights outside the pub to cross to the tube station, but the curve of the buildings hid her from Strike’s sight. He held the phone to his ear and waited as it rang and rang, imaging her searching through her bag for her phone, her soft blue scarf falling from her shoulder as she did so.

“Cormoran?” Her voice was somewhat muffled.

“You’ll have to get the tube at Oxford Circus.” He said.

“Hmm? At... what?” She replied, he frowned slightly at the sound of her voice.

“Tottenham Court Road is shut for the night. Planned engineering works.” He said, and let out a long puff of smoke.

“Okay. Well... what, do you need me to come get you?” He heard ruffling and then a deep intake of breath.

“No. I’m just behind you, I thought you were headed for the tube.” Strike walked along the edge of the wide path now in order to get an earlier view of her.

“Cormoran I’m in bed, it’s nearly one in the morning.”

Strike stopped in his tracks as he came to the corner of the road. He saw two men who had clearly spent the night in the pub, but no Robin. He looked down Oxford Street but it was deserted, the shops long since shut.

“Cormoran?”

“I thought…” Strike’s voice trailed off. _You were there, I saw you._

“Are you okay?” Her voice sounded more serious in tone now.

“Yeah, I just… I thought you were ahead of me. I saw you…” Strike turned and looked back up the road he had travelled. The couple he had passed as he’d left the tube station were now making their way towards him and the man that had been across the road was now turning up towards Bloomsbury.

“Have you been drinking?” Robin asked and he could sense the irritation in her voice.

“No. I… you must have a doppelgänger I guess. Sorry, I’ll just... you’re at home?”

“Yes.”

“Right… I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow.” Strike said, Robin sure to hear the confusion in his voice.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” She asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Bye Robin.” Strike quickly ended the call and walked back around the corner. He looked to the side of the road where he’d seen her cross over. She was there, he’d seen her. Brown paper Primark bag in one hand and her handbag hoisted on her other shoulder. She was wearing her new camel coloured coat and the light blue scarf her mum had given her last Christmas. Her hair had been tucked into the scarf with the odd strand loose and billowing in the breeze. It was her, he was sure of it. But why would she lie? And on the phone she had sounded like someone who had just woken up, and wasn’t the rustling sound like that of a duvet being pushed back?

Strike walked back to the lights and realised his cigarette was still between two fingers, a long neck of grey ash ready to fall off.

“Y’all righ’ mate?” One of the men from outside the pub said. His friend was trying and failing to zip up his jacket.

“Fine.” Strike said, and with a quick glance either way he crossed the road and returned to Denmark Street.

* * *

That night Strike had gotten into bed with a nagging feeling, of what he didn’t know, but he felt anxious in the same way he usually did when the solution to a case was just at the edge of his mind. He had sat up in bed smoking for an hour or two and then plonked himself in front of the TV and stared absentmindedly at reruns of Miss Marple while sipping slowly on a few beers. His alarm had woken him two hours later but sleep had done nothing to dissipate a sense of dread he felt. In fact, he felt worse than when he had fallen asleep, in the way that one does when only a few hours of sleep are achieved. Robin had taken one look at him that morning and declared that he _was_ drunk the night before. He hadn’t corrected her as it felt more comforting than the alternative, whatever it was.

It had been three days since that night. It was now Friday and Strike had spent the day trailing Professor Casanova around Knightsbridge where he was attending an assembly meeting. The promise of a Chinese takeaway and the footie with Nick was the only thing getting him through the day. He hadn’t managed to catch any incriminating evidence so it looked like Robin would be heading back to college after all. He shut the door on the loud hum of construction work and made his way up the stairs. He half expected Robin to be gone but as he approached the frosted doors he saw her dark silhouette passing in front of her desk.

“What the hell is this?” Robin’s voice hit him the moment he got the door open.

“Alright, keep your hair on.” Strike said as he shut the door behind him and began pulling his coat off.

“What the bloody hell is this Cormoran?” Strike’s smile faded from his face when he saw hers. She was clearly pissed off, royally pissed off, about something and he felt his week about to plummet to even worse depths. She was holding out the file that he’d left for her this morning. They had swapped cases halfway through the week due to time constraints so he’d ended up collecting the evidence for her meeting with a man in the car industry who thought his business partner was doing dodgy deals.

“The photographs of McGregor I left you. I told you about them.”

Robin grabbed her phone from the desk and read aloud the text he had sent her the night before.

“Got him red handed. Left the pics on your desk. C.”

“Yes, and?” Strike was becoming irritated.

“And these are the pictures you left me!” Robin handed him the folder and Strike frowned at her. They were crystal clear and would leave McGregor with some serious explaining to do when his partner decided what to do with them.

Strike opened the file and his face fell. McGregor was there, navy suit and striped shirt, standing in a quiet side street with the driver side door open and was passing the keys of the car to the unknown importer.

“It’s a Nissan.” Strike said quietly to himself. He pulled the first picture aside as if the rest would show a different scene.

“Yep, a Nissan that he sold to the gentleman in the picture. All done legally and all above board.”

“Where’s the Bentley?” He asked himself more than Robin.

“That’s the million dollar question. That’s also the question Johnson asked me this morning when I handed him those pictures.” Strike looked up from the photographs and felt his cheeks redden.

“He had the Bentley, I took pictures of him with it.” Strike said as he moved into his office and pulled the camera from the bottom drawer of his desk. He turned it on and began flicking through the most recent images.

“Do you know how stupid and unprofessional I looked Cormoran?”

“I got the Bentley, I must have printed the wrong ones.” Strike scanned through the images but they were all of the same scene. McGregor handing the keys of a blue Nissan Note to a man dressed in jeans and a black Northface jacket.

“I…“

“What? Cormoran, he was outraged, he started ranting about what a terrible detective agency we were when we couldn’t even tell the difference between a bloody Nissan and a Bentley.” Robin was upset, he could see that, and the thought that he had caused this pained him but the feeling of dread from a few nights ago returned as he thought back to taking the pictures. He had followed McGregor to a restaurant near Vauxhall bridge and waited around on a quiet street for him to pass the car to the importer. Strike had smoked the entire time, trying to distract himself from his rumbling stomach, and then looked up the prices of some of the apartments around him. He could remember all of these details of his two hour wait so how come he suddenly couldn’t remember for sure what colour the Bentley was? It had been a Bentley though, he’d been sure of it. But now a second voice entered his mind, _you were sure it was Robin that night too._

“Cormoran?” Robin said, as though she had been trying to get his attention for some time.

“They’re all pictures of a Nissan.” He said.

“I know, I checked when I realised, or rather when Johnson pointed it out to me.” Robin hadn’t checked the images before handing them to Johnson, something she had berated herself about but she hadn’t felt the need to. She trusted Strike.

He looked back down at the camera and then to the printed photos. Robin could see his brain ticking over, his brow furrowing and smoothing as he thought to himself. She also saw that he looked pale and the dark shadows that were ever-present under his eyes seemed darker and deeper than usual. Their work lately was of the usual kind though, they’d had nothing above embezzlement and adultery in weeks.

“I don’t know, a Bentley must have driven past at the same time and… and I got distracted, I don’t know Robin.” He looked at her and something in his eyes caused the anger Robin felt to dissipate. His eyes didn’t have their usual spark or focus, instead he almost looked lost.

“Is everything alright?” She asked and Strike noticed her change of tone.

“Well obviously not if I’m mistaking Nissans for Bentleys.” Strike said with a nervous smile. Inside though he felt an anxious wave rise up in him, a voice kept reminding him of the phantom Robin from a few nights ago and now his memories of the car handover were blending together so that Robin was the one with the car keys in her hand.

“Cormoran?” He felt Robin’s hand on his elbow and then realised he was breathing faster than normal.

“I’m fine, I just…” _I just appear to have started hallucinating._

“Why don’t you sit down.” He allowed Robin to guide him back to the chair behind his desk and he sat heavily onto it. He knew she was hovering anxiously and watching his every move but he couldn’t stop playing the scenes over and over in his head. Robin crossing the road, her hair catching the glow of the streetlights, the reflection of light hitting the car keys, the driver side door of the Bentley opened out, the navy blue of McGregor’s suit, Robin’s light blue scarf.

“Cormoran?” Robin was crouched down now and looking up into his face. Without realising he’d leaned over in the chair.

“Sorry.” He said and moved to stand but Robin placed a hand on his knee to stop him. His eyes glanced down at her hand and she pulled it away just as quick.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I… I guess I haven’t been getting enough sleep.” He lied. The night after seeing, or not seeing, Robin he had only slept two hours but the following night he had fallen asleep before nine and slept though until half eight. His sleeping was becoming irregular now that he thought about it but no more than it had been in the past and he hadn’t hallucinated a dodgy car deal then.

“Why don’t we finish up for the day? There’s not much else to do, might as well start fresh next week.” Robin said as she stood and took one more look at him.

“Alright.” Strike said, sounding unsure. He agreed more to humour her than anything, wanting desperately to get away from her gaze.

“I’ll ring Johnson first thing Monday and apologise again and then you can see about finding McGregor, okay?” Robin said as she started towards his office door.

“No, I’ll ring Johnson, you shouldn’t have to take the blame for my mistakes.” Strike said firmly.

“Alright.” She smiled tightly.

“It’s the least I can do.. I don’t.. I’m sorry Robin.” He sighed.

“I know. But thanks for saying it.” Robin walked a few steps back towards Strike and paused.

“I could meet Ab on Sunday if you want to-“

“No, no, it’s fine.”

“Okay. Get some rest this weekend, okay?”

“Mm. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Bye Cormoran.” Robin said and Strike waited until he heard her leave before getting up. He took one last look at the photographs and then threw the file on his desk with enough force that the photographs spilled across his desk and chair. Strike cursed but decided that cleaning them up could wait. He grabbed his coat and made his way up the narrow stair case to his flat.

Strike sat heavily on his bed and looked around the quiet room. There was a beer bottle on the table where he’d left it last night and a new packet of cigarettes where they should be, resting on the counter top in the kitchen. His bed was made and he remembered puling the duvet from the floor where he had discarded it during the night. The book he was currently reading was resting on his nightstand and a nearly empty glass of water lay on the shelf above his bed. Everything as it should be. So why did Strike feel the need to double check everything? To go into the bathroom and see that his crutches were by the shower and his toothbrush was on the left side of the holder? His eyes searched the small flat and yet every time he came back to something he’d seen before, his book, or glass or the TV remote, he half expected to find it changed somehow. As though some creature was sitting in the shadows and waiting to move everything around while his back was turned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks out from the bushes* So.....? 😬😬😬😬😬😬
> 
> *runs away to have my nervous breakdown* 😂
> 
> p.s. I just have to give each chapter a look over before I post so there should be a new chapter every day or every other day.


	2. I lift my lids and all is born again.

**Chapter 2**

**I lift my lids and all is born again.**

Strike had woken early on Saturday morning. He showered and then spent the time until lunch cleaning his flat. He went to the Sainsbury’s on Tottenham Court Road to pick up some food, all the while avoiding looking at the other side of the road for fear of seeing Robin again. A sense of dread seemed to be creeping into the edge of his mind. He’d spent his time shopping cursing himself silently and angrily throwing food in his basket, garnering looks from a woman sorting through the out of date ready meals. _It wasn’t Robin, just some woman that looks like her_ , he’d told himself as he neared the self-service checkout.

He packed his things, left and then paused at the edge of the road. He’d returned to the office one day a month or so ago with a bag of sandwiches and snacks for lunch in one hand and a paper bag from Boots in the other. He’d complained absentmindedly about one of the creams he used for his stump going up in price and Robin had suggested he try a similar one she’d seen in Holland & Barrett. And now here he was, paused awkwardly at the edge of the street unable to cross the road to the health store for fear of seeing a phantom Robin. _For fucks sake you idiot_. He saw a blur to the side and someone’s shopping bag smacked against the back of his legs. Strike took a deep breath and felt the busy street slow down somehow, as though he was zoning out everything around him. The sense of dread he felt seemed to creep in further, not quite a black cloud but instead a grey smoke that seemed intent on clouding his mind. A car horn blared from somewhere nearby and Strike realised he had been holding his breath. There was a tightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. _Get a fucking grip_. Strike turned and started to walk quickly back through the crowds to Denmark Street.

The rest of his weekend passed without incident. His cleaning moved to the office, Robin’s desk was tidy as usual so after emptying the bins and sweeping the floor he grabbed a step stool from the storage closet and pulled cobwebs from the ceiling and corners of the room. He spent the rest of the day watching football, eating and ignoring the darker thoughts that floated through his mind. A distant sense of foreboding seemed to have settled just behind him like an additional shadow, but if there was one thing Strike was well equipped to do it was to ignore any emotions that battled for his attention.

* * *

Robin text him early Sunday morning. He suspected that she still harboured some concern about his state of mind after the Bentley mix up and was making sure he was still going to make his meeting with Ab. He replied to her casual question with an abrupt ‘Talk 2moro. C’ as he waited for Ab to show up.

Ab was the name they had given to a photographer who was paying Strike to find an ‘artistic leech’, a direct quote from his first email of enquiry, that he claimed was copying his own work somehow and selling it on as an original. Strike had yet to see any evidence of this and was still approaching the whole case with a large amount of skepticism. His first email had been so full of pretentious statements about his art that Strike and Robin had needed to use an online glossary of photography terms to decipher what he was getting it. In their overworked late night state they had started playfully arguing about the term Aberration and thus the nickname Ab had stuck. Ab was the kind of 40-something artistic wannabe that Leda would often bring home, Strike had thought.

Every meeting thus far had occurred at Ab’s studio, a glorified bedsit in a part of Hackney that had yet to be gentrified, and today was no different. Strike found himself sitting on an upturned bucket, the only other option being a dirty mattress or the floor, and telling Ab about what little evidence he had to offer. There was a long pause as both men sipped their cup of tea before Ab dramatically ran to the corner of the room and pulled a pile of photographs from the floor. He was paying their full rates and Strike wondered not for the first time how he could afford it. Either a rich parent was bankrolling his alternative lifestyle or Strike was dealing with some kind of Banksy.

* * *

_“Mr Strike?”_

_The sound of thunder._

_“Sergeant Strike?”_

_A flash._

_“Cormoran?”_

* * *

Strike’s phone rang, the vibration thudding against his thigh, and awareness came flooding back to him. He was standing outside the guitar shop next door to the office staring at his keys on the ground. There was the sound of an ambulance zooming past and a child’s cry from somewhere nearby. Everything seemed detached, the sounds of London echoing around in his mind as if from behind a veil. Strike bent to pick up his keys and felt a wave of dizziness wash over him as he straightened. He walked unsteadily the few paces to the door and shoved the key into the lock as a woman passed and looked him up and down. He slammed the door behind him and sat on the first few steps. It was quiet, the only noise his ragged breathing.

His phone rang again. He pulled it out, saw Robin’s name flash across the screen and answered it automatically.

“How did it go with Ab?” She sounded cheerful and he could hear low music in the background.

_Ab!_ He had met Ab and then... and then what? Strike’s thoughts failed him. He imagined himself getting on the tube at Hackney Central and then changing trains and walking through tunnels and up escalators but found he could not tell for sure if that had actually happened or if a lifetime of living in London had just filled in the blanks for him.

“Cormoran, you there?”

“Yeah.” Strike’s mouth felt dry, as though he hadn’t spoken in hours. How long did it take him to get back from Hackney? What time was it now? Strike searched his wrist for his watch but it wasn’t there.

“My watch.”

“What about it?” Robin’s voice startled him, had he spoken out loud?

“Nothing. What do you want?” Strike said abruptly as he pulled himself up and started the ascent to his flat.

“Charming. I just called to see how things went with Ab.” To her credit, Robin didn’t sound offended by his gruff tone. She was far too used to his various moods by now.

“It was fine.”

“Any new leads?”

Were there? Strike thought back to their conversation but it was now just a blur. He remembered the photographs Ab had shown him. It was all just varying angles of concrete to Strike’s eye but every now and then there would be a shot that looked familiar somehow. Like a street whose name he couldn’t grasp and whose features were all slightly out of place.

“Strike?”

“No. No new leads.”

“Oh. Do you want me to take a look during the week?”

“Why, because I can’t handle a simple case?” It came out threatening and with venom and Strike paused on the stairs as the last word left his mouth. It was as though someone else was talking in his place, like a phantom Strike had also joined the picture.

“No, I... are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well you sound like you’re about to murder someone for one thing.”

“No I... I’m just-“ Strike stopped abruptly. He was... what? Worry washed over him. He felt like he was adrift in the after affects of a dissociative episode but he‘d only ever had one of those in the months after he lost his leg. It would be a comfort now if he could put all this down to his leg, if something had happened to trigger a flashback and put him back inside the Viking ready to explode. He could deal with that, as bad as it was, because he knew what was happening and why and that it would end.

“Cormoran?” Robin’s voice echoed down the line as if static was competing with her for Strike’s attention.

“Could you...” He trailed off. He wanted to ask her if she was busy, if they could talk, if she could come over, look him up and down and tell him he was fine.

“Could I what? Is everything okay? Cormoran?” Her voice was soft and it sent a pang of longing through him.

“I just... Nothing. I was going to ask you about McGregor but we can talk about it on Monday.” Strike flinched listening to his voice. He sounded shaky and unsure.

“If you’re sure. I could come over later if you want.” Robin blushed the moment she said it. She hadn’t noticed any evidence of a woman in Strike’s life lately, there were no hushed calls to confirm dinner plans and he hadn’t come to work in the same clothes as the previous day. However the thought of inviting herself along and finding a tall blonde lounging in the office with a glass of wine waiting impatiently for Strike to finish work was enough to cause a heaviness in her chest.

“No. No, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, bye Cormoran.”

“Robin?”

“Yes.”

“What time is it?” Strike looked again at his bare wrist.

“Nearly half five.”

Half five? Strike felt a sudden swell of panic. He’d been with Ab around lunch time, he now remembered feeling his stomach rumble as Ab talked vaguely about a street in Lambeth.

“Bye Robin.” Strike ended the call as Robin began to say something. He walked unsteadily up the stairs and unlocked the office. He threw his coat and scarf on the couch and when the flush of warmth he felt didn’t abate he opened the windows.

* * *

Robin had spent the time after her call with Strike torn between ringing him back and visiting him in person. As close as she and Strike had gotten there was still an invisible barrier there that neither had broached. It was strange the more she thought about it. They could talk frankly about panic attacks and trauma and they could spend lunches together listing their worst dating experiences, hers were somewhat less disastrous than his, but the barrier still appeared unannounced at times.

As the evening wore on Robin kept trying to convince herself that nothing was wrong. She had offered to come over and he had said no, therefore he was fine. He had a life outside of the office and a million and one things that could be going through his mind and causing him stress. Stress was normal and it would explain his absentmindedness and he was a grown man who had dealt with far worse before she came along. She decided that a few more hours wouldn’t change anything, if he was as tired as he looked he would probably be going to bed soon enough anyway, and she would see him first thing Monday morning.

Sunday night television proved not to be the distraction she had hoped for however and instead Robin thought back to the last time she had seen Strike. He had looked pale and tense and unnerved by something and the more she saw the memory of him in her mind the more she regretted not going to see if he was alright. It was late now and she found herself dialing Ilsa’s number rather than Strike’s.

“Hiya, hold on let me escape the guts and gore.” Ilsa answered.

“The what?”

“Oh some film Nick’s been going on about. It’s terrible.” Robin heard a distant ‘oy!’ from Nick and then silence as a door shut.

“You’re my saviour. So what’s up?” Robin couldn’t help but smile, Ilsa was a warm and light presence in her life which she was increasingly grateful for.

“Nothing, I just... I wanted to ask you something about Cormoran but you can’t say anything to him.”

“Oh my god.” Ilsa exclaimed excitedly.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing, go on.”

“Well, I was wondering if there were any anniversaries coming up, maybe to do with his mum or something else? I don’t know.” Robin felt a flush in her cheeks. She knew how Strike felt about his privacy but the image of him staring at the photographs of the car with a mixture of shock and confusion had plagued her all evening.

“Oh.” Ilsa said with an air dejection.

“What?”

“I thought you were going to say something else.”

“Ilsa!”

“Okay, okay. Anniversaries? Well Leda’s anniversary isn’t for another while, neither is her birthday. I can’t think of anyone else. Why?”

“It’s probably nothing. He just seemed, I don’t know, off.”

“Off? In what way?”

“Well the last week or two he’s been making some mistakes at work and I didn’t think anything of it because they were just small errors and we all make mistakes when we’re tired-“

“But?”

“But he took some pictures for a case and seemed to have seen something totally different than what the camera did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well he mistook a Nissan for a Bentley-“

“He did?”

“Yeah, and if it was anyone else-“

“But this is Corm.”

“Exactly. And he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, which isn’t unusual if we’re in the middle of a big case but we’re not and I don’t know what to do or what to say to him. There’s something going on Ilsa and I don’t know what.” Robin’s voice quickened in pace and increased in worry the more she openly expressed her fears.

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Ilsa said quietly but her tone was one of doubt and did nothing to reassure herself or Robin.

“I’ll ask Nick to talk to him, he might be able to get something out of him.” Ilsa said, her own mind whirling with possible explanations.

“He can’t tell Cormoran I said anything.”

“Relax, he won’t. He was going to pop over tomorrow morning anyway before his shift. Honestly he’s a bit miffed with him, they were meant to watch the football together on Friday night but Corm never showed.”

“Really?”

“Yep, he’d usually call if he was caught up with a case or something else but Nick said there wasn’t so much as a text. He’s been in a bad mood about it all weekend, which is why I’ve been having to endure all these sci-fi monstrosities.”

“Right.” Robin’s worry only increased with this knowledge.

“I’ll let you get back to the film. Tell Nick I’ll see him tomorrow, I‘ll be at the office around nine and Strike shouldn’t be far behind me.”

“I’ll tell him. And Robin?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll call me or Nick if anything else happens?”

“I will. Thanks Ilsa.”

“Anytime. Maybe we could have a drink together during the week? I should be done with this bloody case by Thursday.” Ilsa had been buried beneath case studies and court files for the best part of the last four months, giving out about it at their weekly curry nights.

“That would be great. Bye Ilsa.”

“Robin?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sure Corm is fine.”

“Yeah.” Robin said, not quite as convincingly as she would have liked although she recognised in Ilsa’s voice a professional tone and wondered which one of them she was trying to convince. They said their goodbyes and Robin then had a bath, washed her hair and made dinner, all the while trying to distract herself from calling Strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the plot thickens! But Robin is on the case! But will she figure things out in time? And what will Nick think? Tune in next time for... alright I'll stop :)
> 
> I just wanted to say a HUGE, GIANT, HUMONGOUS thank you for all the lovely comments on Chapter One! This is the hardest fic I've written so it was really lovely and encouraging to hear (read) everyone react so positively! Means A LOT! 
> 
> *nervous laughter* Let's hope the rest of it lives up to the hype *nervous laughter*


	3. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

**Chapter 3**

**(I think I made you up inside my head.)**

As cold as it was on Monday morning Robin was grateful for the freezing air that greeted her upon exiting Tottenham Court Road tube station. The carriages had been packed, as usual, and her winter coat had left her sweating and counting the stops to her station. Just before turning up the street to start the short walk to Denmark Street she grabbed a Metro newspaper and read the headlines while making her way into the office.

As Robin approached the top of the stairs she saw the dark silhouette of Strike passing in front of the frosted glass door. It wasn’t unusual for him to beat her into the office but she had rather hoped to see him arrive a little later and sleepy-eyed, at least then she could rest easy knowing that he had got a certain amount of rest.

“Christ!” Robin found herself exhaling when she pushed the door open. The temperature in the room felt colder than outside and she looked across the office to see the windows wide open. There were sheets of paper on the floor from where a folder on top of the filing cabinet had been blown open by a gust.

“Cormoran! It’s bloody freezing!” There was a bang from his office and then the sound of his desk drawer being slammed shut. Robin pulled the windows shut and threw her bag onto her desk. She flipped the switch on the kettle as she made her way into the inner office. The bulky frame of her partner appeared suddenly and Robin took a step back.

Strike’s eyes were bloodshot and wild looking, the dark circles under his eyes were a deep purple. His shirt was half unbuttoned and where his hand gripped the doorframe his knuckles were white. His eyes flickered from Robin to something behind her and back again.

“Cormoran?” Robin took a step forward with her hand out but this just caused him to step back.

“Robin.” His voice was hoarse and as he spoke he looked behind her again, as if expecting someone.

“Are you okay?” Robin saw that the window in his office was wide open too.

“Yes.” He furrowed his brows. They eyed each other for a moment.

“Why are all the windows open? It’s freezing in here.” She asked, pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands and walking past him with a sense of wariness. She pulled the window shut and paused at his desk, the photos of McGregor were spread all over it along with various papers, some of which were covering a photograph. Robin could make out a bland grey street with no distinguishing features.

“You’re...” He paused and looked away to the corner of the room and then back. _As if there‘s someone there_ , Robin thought and something inside her chest turned to ice.

”Cormoran?”

“It’s late. I mean, you’re early.….” His lips quirked but it was as if his mind couldn’t quite find the memory of a smile.

“It’s just past nine.” Robin said, her eyes turning to the laptop open on his desk. She walked closer and saw he had a website open, a generic picture of someone with their head in their hands sat below the title, in bold, ‘ **Predictors of Delayed-Onset PTSD** ’. Strike was suddenly beside her and slamming the laptop closed.

“I was just... I’m alright.” He said defensively.

“Cormoran-“

“-I’m fine.” He had the laptop under his arm now and was shoving the papers into a messy pile with his free hand.

“Have you been up all night?”

“No.”

“Oggy? Robin?” Nick voice made them both jump, such was the tension between them. Strike glanced at Robin and then towards the door where Nick appeared smiling.

“God, it’s freezing in here, you two forget to pay the heating?” Nick asked, rubbing his hands together.

“Yeah.” Strike answered vaguely with a warning look thrown Robin’s way.

“Right,” Nick replied with a confused look towards Robin, “Suppose you forgot about Friday too then?”

“Friday? Um, yeah Friday. Sorry Nick, I’m... I was stuck... I was working.” Nick didn’t miss the way Robin turned and looked straight at Strike.

“Working?” She asked him. Strike ignored her and seemed to hug the laptop closer.

“I’m sorry mate.”

“Yeah, well, a text would have been nice.” Nick said, not managing to sound as annoyed as he wanted to.

“I know.”

The three of them stood in a moment of silence, Strike’s eyes darting past them to the doorway.

“You alright Oggy?” Nick asked, sharing a pointed look with Robin.

Strike continued to stare past them as if he hadn’t heard Nick.

“Cormoran?” Robin prompted him.

He looked slowly back to them, letting the laptop and papers sag in his arms as if he’d forgotten he was holding them.

“You alright mate?” Nick asked again.

“Yes.” Cormoran said unconvincingly.

“You sure? You don’t look-“

“Don’t look what?” Strike asked, his attention now zeroed in on Nick. Robin saw his posture straighten and felt Nick’s gaze swing to her before settling back on Strike.

“Well, you don’t look the best mate. Forget to sleep for the past month?” Nick smiled but Robin could feel the worry emanating from him.

“We’ve just been busy.” Strike replied, a wary and tight smile thrown Robin’s way.

“Cormoran-“ Robin started but he walked past them both and out into the main office.

“We have work to do Nick.” Strike said, coming to a halt in front of the window out onto Denmark street. Nick looked taken aback at Strike’s dismissive tone.

“Right. Well then, I guess I should leave you to it.” Nick turned towards Robin who was standing off to one side. Their eyes met and Robin saw he had a question written across his face.

“Yes.” Strike asserted.

Nick didn’t move, instead he walked closer to Cormoran and stood with his back to Robin.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong? Right Oggy?” Nick said, his voice low and steady.

“Nothing-“ Strike paused, catching Robin’s eye as he looked past Nick, “Nothing is wrong.”

“But you’d tell me if there was?” Nick pressed.

“Always have.” Strike said, feeling an immediate sense of guilt at using his history with Nick as a way to lie to him. He felt his friend’s gaze on him, moving from his bloodshot eyes to his dry lips, crumpled shirt and unsteady hands.

“Oggy-“

“Hello, I’m not interrupting am I?” A woman’s voice called and Robin almost jumped, so focused had her attention been on Strike and Nick.

“Mrs Davis! No, come on in.” Robin recognised the red haired woman in the doorway as a new client she had met last week.

Mrs Davis stepped into the office, her smile faltering when she saw Strike.

“I need to-“ Strike gestured towards the ceiling to indicate he was going upstairs.

“I’ll come with you.” Nick said.

“No. No, I need to change.” Strike replied and Nick frowned at the unsteady tone in his friend’s voice. A memory of a time after Strike had lost his leg resurfaced before Nick firmly reburied it.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen you in your undies before.” Nick said and Mrs Davis turned to Robin with a raised brow.

“Why don’t we go inside.” Robin said, walking towards Strike’s office and then remembering the paper and photographs scattered everywhere.

Strike moved to the office door, still carrying his laptop and papers and Nick followed him out into the hall.

“Oggy?” He called after him.

“Leave it!” Strike responded fiercely, standing to his full height and causing Nick to take a step back. He’d never seen his friend in his SIB guise but he ventured that his current tone wasn’t far off the mark.

Cormoran ducked his head and then lifted it. Nick saw something in his eyes that transported him back to another time, when they were both seventeen and sat together in the living room of Nick’s parent’s house after one of the worst nights of Cormoran’s childhood. Strike opened his mouth, his face full of something, but then he turned and disappeared up the stairs, pulling himself up each step with one hand on the rail.

* * *

Strike had stayed upstairs for the length of time it took Robin to interview Mrs Davis and set up a case file. She had been distracted and kept having to refocus as Mrs Davis relaid her concerns. They could both hear Strike pacing above them, and then pausing for minutes at a time before pacing again. After Mrs Davis finally left, Robin ensuring that she’d be in touch soon, she had stood in the hallway outside not knowing whether to go up to his flat or not.

She thought of how bad he had looked that morning and knew something serious was going on. She had seen him in pain, sleep-deprived, and running on cigarettes and takeaways alone but even then he hadn’t worried her the way he did now. And what was the cause for this? There was no killer stalking their movements this time. Her thoughts turned to the article on Strike’s laptop, ‘ **Predictors of Delayed-Onset PTSD** ’, and she felt out of her depth. Robin had learned about PTSD during a module in university and again in the months after her rape, but she had never used any of her knowledge to examine her friends or family. That way trouble led. Now, her mind seemed to stack the information up of its own free will. She knew Cormoran had suffered from PTSD symptoms after losing his leg, and still did to a certain extent, and she knew it unlikely that he had emerged totally unscathed from his childhood or mother’s death without some sort of emotional baggage. But why now? Why would he be spiralling now, seemingly without any triggers? She found herself listing the symptoms of his that she was aware of; the confusion and mistakes, his irregular sleeping pattern, how detached he’d seemed when she caught him staring into space and then how unbalanced his emotions had seemed just now with Nick.

A looming sense of dread filled her as she remembered his phone call from last week. The shrill tone and vibration of her phone on her bedside table had awoken her to a Cormoran rambling about the Tube and talking as if she was on the streets right ahead of him. What if he really had thought he’d seen her?

The office door banged open and pulled her from her thoughts. Strike walked in, a surety in his step as he shut the door behind him but when he turned and smiled she saw it was strained and unsteady. He made a beeline for his office before she could even say hello and then shut the door, leaving Robin to grow more and more frustrated as he continued to shut her out. No sounds came from his office and Robin watched the clock, wondering if he would appear for lunch. She spent nearly an hour listening for the slightest sound from as she tried and failed to write up case notes. Her mind began to put together a script, a way for her to confront him without it sounding like a confrontation or intervention. Just as she was about to go and approach him he appeared with a smile and put the kettle on.

“Everything okay?” Robin asked.

“Yeah, why?” He responded, taking two mugs from the shelf and putting a tea bag in each. Robin barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes.

“Cormoran-“

“Do you want tea or coffee?” He asked, voice rushing in to interrupt her. She took a deep breath and watched him as he gripped the kitchen counter and dropped his head.

“Tea. Cormoran, is everything alright?” She asked, almost wanting to shake her head at herself. _Of course he’s not alright,_ her mind shouted at her.

“Fine. You?” He said, without turning around.

Robin let out a sigh and looked back at her desk.

“Yeah, fine.” She replied, feeling dejected. She felt as though she had arrived to a fight ill-equipped and been paired against the full force of his armour. He made no more conversation and only moved to pull the milk from the fridge.

Robin finished reviewing the notes she had written and looked up as the kettle clicked but saw that Strike had wandered over towards the window.

“By the way, Johnson sent an email last night.” Robin said, hoping to get a better feel for what was going on with him by getting him talking about a case. She looked up when there was no response and saw that Cormoran had his back to her and was looking out the window.

“Cormoran?”

There was no reply, not even a dip of the head to acknowledge that she’d called him and Robin slowly made her way around the desk. She came to stand beside him and saw that his eyes were wide and dazed looking. His focus was on the scene outside and Robin followed his gaze but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Cormoran?” Robin said warily, her tone measured as she reached a hand out to touch his arm.

She heard him let out a shaky gasp and then his face morphed into one of panic as his lips parted.

“No!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a shorter chapter.......... and now I'm thinking nothing really happens in it 😂😂 but I promise it's all heading somewhere and the end of the next chapter is the turning point of the story and, fun fact, actually where the story began when I started writing it. (I wrote it more or less in the following order: chapter 5,4, 6, 7, 1, 2, 8, 3, 9, 10, 13, 11, 12) ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. The stars go waltzing out in blue and red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I'd pop a warning at the start to say this chapter deals with PTSD and panic attacks, in case that's not the kind of thing you want to read. This is the only chapter that contains PTSD (although NOT the only one to contain a traumatic event) so if you'd rather skip that kind of thing you can wait and read the rest of the story instead. Shouldn't end up too lost by skipping this one and everything will of course be revealed in the end anyway. :)

Chapter 4

**The stars go waltzing out in blue and red**

“No!”

The scene below was one of carnage. The smoke billowed up as the smell of burning metal began to rise. Workers and tourists alike were scattered about the street, either side of the Viking where it lay flipped over in the middle of the road, the back a mess of twisted metal.

Strike caught sight of movement nearby but it disappeared just as quick. Flames flickered across the truck and black scorch marks scarred the street. The thump, thump, thump of the helicopter blades was too close, making him flinch. He could feel the vibration of it in his chest as the sound morphed, increasing and decreasing in tempo.

“No!”

Just as quickly as it happened everything restarted. A woman ran across the street to meet a friend. A tourist looked up and snapped a picture of the cranes at the corner of Denmark street and Tottenham Court Road. It was happening again, he could tell. His heart missed a beat as the Viking turned onto the street and then stopped, blocked from further movement by a Nissan stopped up ahead. A silent pause was filled with the sound of his unsteady breaths. On the side of the road the older boy put his phone back in his pocket and pulled the younger one away and he just _knew_.

“No!”

_Brake_! His mind repeated the word over and over again but it didn’t seem able to make it to his lips.

“Cormoran!”

_Brake_. _Brake_. _Brake_. _Brake_. _BRAKE!_

“Cormoran!”

He waited for it. Waited for the blinding light, waited for the deafening bang, waited to be thrown through the air, for the shockwave to shoot through his body and for the smell of burning flesh that would follow.

“Cormoran!”

He felt hands gripping his arms just above his elbows. _This is different_ , he thought. He was sitting down, not lying on the desert floor. Below him was soft, not hard, and there was no sand crunching between his teeth. No weight of his army vest on his chest or holster around his thigh. A hand took his and he realised he wasn’t wearing his black gloves.

Everything was white, his sight misty to match the clouds and dust kicked up by the IED. But it was Robin’s concerned face that encroached upon on his vision, not the boy with the gun. It was Robin who was holding his hand now and talking, her lips moving though his mind registered no sound.

“-safe. Cormoran?”

She sounded like she had called his name more than once. Her eyes were wide and he registered how quickly his breaths had been coming only now that they were slowing down. Her hand squeezed his knee from where she was crouched in front of him as he sat on the couch.

“Robin?” He asked, his voice hoarse.

“Yes.” She said with a sigh of relief, “Yeah, it’s me. You’re safe, you’re safe. Are you okay? Do you know where you are?”

_The office_ , he thought, but his eyes were drawn again to the window. He couldn’t see out of it anymore, having at some point made it to the couch.

“It’s okay, there’s nothing there. You’re okay.” Robin said, her hand gripping his tightly and her thumb massaging circles across his knuckles. He realised then that he was shaking, Robin doing her best to stop the tremors in the hand she held.

“There’s nothing there.” He said shakily. _It’s okay._ _You’re not there, it’s not happening again, you’re safe_.

“There’s nothing there.” Robin repeated. She got up from her crouched position and his hand tightened its grip on hers. She sat beside him and began rubbing circles across the back of his shoulders.

“Just take some deep breaths.”

Strike became aware of how tight his chest felt but then Robin’s soft voice beside him began counting from one to four as he inhaled and then counted as he held his breath for seven more beats. His mind began to drift and he focused on his breathing, on the whooshing sound of the air leaving his pursed lips and on the tight grip Robin had of his hand. He felt the adrenaline rushing through him begin to leave, leaving behind the usual anxious energy, like a tight elastic band was running through his arms and legs.

The world shifted again and Robin was putting a mug of tea, his ‘I Love Cornwall’ mug, into his hands and holding it steady until he tightened his grip.

“Sugary tea.” She said by way of explanation.

Strike looked down at it and then realised he must have zoned out in the time it took her to make it. His breathing was coming easier though and his chest felt looser.

“Thanks.” He said.

Neither made a sound as Cormoran sipped the tea. He looked sideways at her on the couch and felt a wash of shame come over him that he hadn’t felt in a while.

“I’m okay now.” He said, for Robin’s benefit more than his own.

“No, you’re not.” Robin said and he looked around at her. She didn’t give him a look of pity or disgust, didn’t smile and change the subject. She just stated the truth and let him exist in that moment, without the weight of trying to feel anything else.

His phone buzzed and Robin looked at his trouser pocket and he thought he saw her fingers twitch. He ignored it and drank more tea as Robin walked over to her desk and pulled a Twix from her bottom drawer.

“You have a junk food drawer and you never told me?” He asked, his voice shaky and the words coming slow as it took his brain a moment extra to string them together but it warmed his chest to see her smile.

  
“It’s a self preservation drawer. You turn into a right moody sod when you’re hungry.” She explained and the terror of a few moments ago melted away as she sat beside him, her knee touching his, and passed over the chocolate bar.

“Cormoran…” Robin’s voice faltered and he found himself looking at her lips, parted and moving ever so slightly in search of the right words. A moment of something. All too regular an occurrence now and if Strike’s mind had the coherency left it would be screaming at him to just say something. His phone buzzed again.

“I should…” He started, indicating his trouser pocket.

“Right.” Robin said reluctantly.

He fumbled with his phone, his thumb hitting the wrong password numbers twice and he cursed under his breath. There was a missed call and three texts from Ab. He wanted to meet Strike about something urgent.

“Bollocks.” Strike said.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s Ab. He wants to meet.”

“When?” Robin asked, already standing.

“Tonight.”

“I’ll meet him.”

“No.”

“Cormoran-“

“I’ll meet him.” He reiterated while rubbing a hand across his eyes. “I’d only have to bring you up to speed, and I don’t have the energy for that.”

“All the more reason that-“

“Robin, please.” Cormoran sighed. He didn’t have the focus to try and argue his case with her. She rolled her eyes and then looked him up and down.

“Well at least lie down for a bit first. You look like you haven’t slept in-“

“Alright.” Strike interrupted.

“And eat something. You’re hands are still shaking.” Robin said, taking Cormoran’s hand in hers. He watched their hands intertwined, her pale fingers ghosting past a faint silver scar across one of his knuckles.

“Get him to meet somewhere nearby, I don’t want you traipsing all the way to Hackney on the tube.”

“Yes boss.” He said with a raised eyebrow.

Robin let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes, something which brought a faint smile to his face.

“Now you know how I feel.” She added.

Her face became serious, the soft look to it fading.

“You know you can talk to me?”

“I thought that’s what we were doing.”

“No, I mean... if there was something going on, if there was something” she paused, looking from his hands to his eyes, “serious, something that scared you... I just want you to know that you can tell me?”

Cormoran’s face had paled, his mouth opening and then pausing in its movement. _Tell her!_ _Robin can help, she’ll know what‘s happening,_ a voice told him. But then another voice entered the fray. It belonged to a soldier three years younger than him who he’d spoken to only a handful of times during his stay at the Selly Oak Hospital. He’d lost both legs a week before Cormoran lost one. Their last meeting came in the shower room at the end of their ward. Cormoran had wheeled himself through the door, his shower supplies and towel in his lap, and looked to find an empty cubicle but instead found the younger soldier. The last thing he had told Cormoran was, “ _Once you tell someone everything changes. You can’t ever take it back.”_

“I know, I’m fine.” He told Robin. Strike rose slowly and stiffly, his leg giving out to him for the first time in a while. Robin hovered as he made his way to the door and then followed him out into the hall.

“Cormoran?” Robin called and he turned from where he had begun the ascent to his flat.

“Call me if you need me. If anything happens or… call me.” She said and Strike noticed for the first time that she looked pale.

“Promise.” He replied.

* * *

“Hiya Robin.” Nick answered. She could hear the sounds of the hospital in the background.

“Hi, not finished work yet?” She asked.

“Ugh, if only. No, I’m covering the A&E end of things for a mate. He’s proposing to his girlfriend tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, wanted to do it on her birthday but he got stuck on shift so I said I’d cover for him.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Tell that to Ilsa. I was supposed to get dessert on the way home.”

Robin smiled and thought of Ilsa’s outrage at being done out of dessert on a Monday night. She had seen her fury once before when Cormoran had eaten her portion of Samosas.

“So what’s up?” Nick asked.

Robin paused. She had rehearsed over and over again what to say but every script left her feeling like she was betraying Strike somehow.

“Cormoran’s not okay.” She blurted out.

“Has something happened?” Nick asked, his tone serious.

“Yes. Well, I mean… he’s okay, he’s not in danger-“ _I think_ , she thought to herself.

“Robin, just tell me what’s wrong?” He pressed.

“He had a panic attack, earlier.”

“What?” Nick’s voice sounded soft and devastated.

“He stayed up in his flat for a while after you left and I just thought he needed a minute. But then he came down and locked himself away in his office and when he finally came out… he was, I don’t know, I just thought he was being stubborn. I mean you know Cormoran, he doesn’t exactly open up easily but I thought… anyway, he walked over to the window and looked out and… it was like something horrific had happened below. I thought maybe something had but there was nothing and then he just kept repeating ‘no’ over and over again and started hyperventilating.”

“Shit.” Nick said quietly.

“Yeah.” Robin replied.

“I thought we could talk to him. I thought it would be better if you or Ilsa were there too. I mean, I wasn’t around when… well, before when-”

“You think this is connected to him losing his leg?” Nick asked.

“Well what else could it be?”

Nick hummed in agreement but what Robin couldn’t see was his frown. Cormoran had struggled in the beginning but Nick had never been prouder of his best mate than when he adjusted back to life outside the army and tackled all the obstacles, physical and psychological, that his injury had thrown at him. He wracked his brain for a reason as to why all that would come to a shuddering halt now and came up empty.

“Where is he now?” He asked.

“He’s meeting a client. He sent me a text to say he’d gotten there alright and that he’d talk to me tomorrow.”

Strike had also added a quick ‘Sorry about earlier. Thanks for the tea.’ a few minutes later.

“Right. I won’t be done here until late, at least midnight but probably sometime after.”

Robin frowned. She had half been hoping that Nick would say he’d meet her now and they’d wait for Strike’s return to his flat. It was already 8pm and Robin was increasingly tempted to send him a text asking him if he was home yet. She could just picture his face, how he’d scowl and shake his head. A small bit of anger bubbled up at his double standards; whenever she was out late working he’d make every excuse to keep texting and calling her until he knew she was home.

“What about in the morning?” Robin asked, feeling slightly guilty knowing how late Nick would be getting home, but relieved when he jumped to agree.

“Perfect! Half eight suit?” He asked.

“Yes, I’ll be there. We can meet outside.” _Why not in the office? What are you hiding from?_ Robin asked herself. She felt like she was arranging an intervention and then suddenly realised that maybe this wasn’t that far removed from one.

“Okay. I better go, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bye Nick.”

“Robin?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for telling me.”

He hung up and Robin sat back in the quiet of her room and took a deep breath, replaying the concerned tone of Nick’s voice in her head and imagining Cormoran’s face as he whispered ’no’ over and over again.

* * *

It was drizzling slightly as Robin stood huddled awkwardly in a doorway halfway down Denmark Street waiting to spot Nick as he made his way from the tube station. She watched a mother across the road trying and failing to coax her toddler further along the street. A Fedex van made its way from St. Giles High Street and came to a stop outside Fernandez and Wells earning a loud blast of the horn from a passing cab. Robin looked back towards the Tottenham Court Road end of Denmark Street and saw Nick coming towards her. He was just past the office door and making his way around a slower moving darkly dressed man who stood a foot taller than him.

“It would start to rain when I’ve forgotten an umbrella.” He said by way of greeting, eyes thrown to the heavens.

“At least your hair won’t get wet.” Robin teased.

“Uff, that’s a low blow Robin.” He said with a frown followed quickly by a wink.

Nick’s face turned serious then and he stepped back, motioning with a hand back towards the office. They fell into step and passed through the open front door before climbing the stairs.

“How do you think he’ll react?” Robin asked quietly as they came to the top of the stairs.

“Not much better than last time, probably.” Nick replied, doing nothing to make things any clearer in Robin’s mind.

Robin pulled her keys out but as she grabbed the handle she realised the door was already unlocked. With Nick behind her she pushed the door open, expecting to see Cormoran making tea or walking about the office. The image before her was nothing of the sort.

“Oh god!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


	5. And arbitrary blackness gallops in

**Chapter 5**

**And arbitrary blackness gallops in**

Strike was on the floor. His arms were held taut underneath his chest where he lay on his stomach. Robin froze as she saw him, his legs shaking and his breaths coming in grunts, it looked like he was somehow drowning on land. Nick shoved past her, knocking her handbag from her shoulder to the floor, and dropped to his knees beside Strike. He pulled him over onto his back and Strike immediately began to struggle, his efforts uncoordinated and panicked.

“Oggy! Fuck! What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Robin saw Nick look him up and down and then grab his face with both hands. Strike grabbed his wrists and tried to turn his head away but Nick held him firm and peered down at him.

“Oggy stop, it’s me, it’s Nick.” The words didn’t seem to register and Strike just became more agitated. His legs started to kick out, his good leg giving a vigorous jolt and Robin jumped back.

“Fuck!”

“What?” Robin questioned as Nick’s outburst snapped her out of her frozen stance. He was staring into Strike’s eyes now, their faces inches apart.

“I think...” Nick’s voice trailed off, his face a picture of disbelief.

“What?” Robin pressed.

When Nick had first seen Strike on the floor he had instantly thought he’d fallen or been attacked during a break-in at the office. Then he’d seen the look on his face as he’d turned him over and thought he was caught up in a flashback. Nick had been there for some of the panic attacks in the early days, before he got a handle on them, the ones that left him shaky and spaced out for hours. This was different.

“What Nick?” Robin’s voice was quiet and Nick looked up and saw that she had paled considerably and looked scared.

“His pupils are dilated, he’s shaking, his breathing is slowing down and uncoordinated and whatever he’s seeing right now it’s not you and me.” Nick said as he struggled to stop Strike from pushing him away. Nick didn’t mention that Strike’s lips were taking on a dark colour, no longer red, now a deepening purple. Each exhale of Strike’s came with a grunt, as though he was having to consciously do the work for his lungs. He fought as Nick pulled his mouth open to check his airway.

“Call an ambulance, tell them he’s ingested something and he’s possibly in the middle of an overdose.” Nick said as he grabbed one of Strike’s flailing arms and put his fingers to his wrist to check his pulse.

“Overdose?” Robin repeated without moving an inch.

“Robin, I know this looks scary but I need your help right now, okay?” Robin nodded and pulled her phone from her bag. She called for an ambulance, repeating Nick’s words, and watched as Strike’s unfocused eyes briefly met hers before darting away again. Robin passed the phone to Nick who held it between his ear and shoulder and briefly reamed off information to the person on the other end of the line. Robin listened to the tone of Nick’s voice and gathered that the number he mentioned, Strike’s heart rate, wasn’t good.

She took a deep breath and dropped down to the floor on the opposite side of Strike to Nick. Strike had never scared her like this before, of all the menacing looks he gave suspects and the punches she’d seen him throw and receive this was something that froze the breath in her chest. He looked possessed, like some ghoul had creeped in during the night and stolen him from her and left this in his place. Strike’s legs had lost their violent energy but tremors still ran down them. One of his arms broke free from Nick’s grasp and began to pull at his shirt. Robin grabbed his wrist and held tight, pulling it away from his chest albeit with a fight as Strike’s strength seemed to come in ebbs and flows. He suddenly slammed his eyes shut and grimaced. Simultaneously, Robin realised that Strike was holding his breath and Nick let out another curse. He dropped Robin’s phone to the ground and then shouted at Strike, scaring Robin in the process. He started slapping Strike’s cheek and Robin pulled back and dropped Strike’s wrist just as he pulled in a ragged breath.

“Oggy! Can you hear me? You need to calm down and just breathe. Oggy? Come on, look at me.” Nick held Strike’s face with a hand on either cheek and for a brief moment Strike’s eyes seemed to settle on him. Then his eyes looked past him and Strike’s chest heaved up from the floor as he tried to turn away. Nick and Robin both pushed him back down and Robin kept her hands on his chest as if somehow her touch could bring back the real Cormoran. He took a slow half breath and Robin watched as his eyes twitched back and forth. His legs fell still and the hand that had grabbed Nick’s shirt sleeve fell to the floor.

“Oggy?” Robin looked at Nick and saw his face morph into one of fear. Their were longer pauses now between Strike’s breaths and the twitches and tremors running through him seemed to be losing pace. He was ashen.

“Cormoran?” Robin said, turning now and putting a hand to his face. His mouth was open wide and his chin tilted up. Her thumb grazed his bottom lip, pale in colour, and she saw that the wild panic in his eyes that had earlier scared her was now turning muted. His eyes kept darting back to the left side of the room but at a slower pace now. Nick began rubbing his chest but it was as though Strike couldn’t feel anything. A distant siren drew their attention to each other. ‘ _He’ll be fine_ , _it’s Cormoran, he’ll be fine’_ seemed to pass unspoken between them, a desperate mantra.

Nick watched Strike’s slow moving chest, his lips moving as he kept track of the time between breaths. He tilted Strike’s head back to help his airway, placing a hand on his forehead and positioning himself ready to give rescue breaths to his friend. His mind bombarded him with cursed words as he looked down at Strike and panic threatened to take hold. Moments passed through his mind with sickening speed; a disastrous double date in their teens, standing beside him at the alter waiting for Ilsa, his sprinting form ahead with a football under his arm as they ran from a broken window and Strike’s beaming face when they opened their Uni acceptance letters.

Nick took a deep breath, willed his heartbeat to slow down and settled himself.

He counted the seconds between Strike’s breaths, too many, and then double checked his airway and wiped a hand across his lips. He didn’t know what Strike had ingested and he said a silent apology to Ilsa if it turned out to be poison and he was about to expose himself to it, but he didn’t have anything to use as a breathing barrier. He was conscious of Robin watching him with wide eyes as he waited for another breath from Strike. As Strike exhaled the little air he had taken in Nick waited a second, pinched his nose and then sealed his mouth over Strike’s and began the rescue breathing. He watched Strike’s chest rise with the first breath and then dip, he counted the seconds in his head while Strike took his own struggling breath.

“That’s good Oggy, keep trying.” He said quietly as he leaned over him in preparation for the next breath and waited for Strike to exhale the small amount he’d inhaled independently. Strike’s eyes were barely visible now, just the barest sight of them visible behind almost closed lids. Nick heard an unsteady exhale from Robin and then as he leaned over to give Strike another breath they both heard the distant siren screech up the stairs and through the room, like it was right outside.

When Nick pulled back again Robin leaned directly over Strike, her hair falling into a curtain either side of his face. She felt the weak breath that left his mouth ghost across her face and then in a moment that seemed to reach deep down into Robin’s soul his eyelids raised slightly and he looked straight into her eyes.

“Cormoran?”

* * *

_“Cormoran?”_

_His mother’s eyes found his. He was huddled underneath the kitchen table. Six days ago Lucy’s dad had taken her to his house for the Easter holidays, a long promised event that Lucy had been looking forward to with growing excitement as the day neared. She had made an Easter basket at school and a special Easter card for her dad and, to Cormoran’s dismay, wouldn’t stop telling him about the Easter eggs she would be getting and the trip to the zoo they were going on. He had woken the morning after they got their Easter holidays to a card under his pillow addressed to Stick with a badly drawn pink bunny on it and a bar of chocolate on top of his football kit._

_when he picked her up, Rick Fantoni had brought Cormoran a jigsaw with a map of the UK on the box. There were football jerseys denoting the various home teams and every major stadium was present. Every flat surface in the bedsit was covered with things he recognised and things he didn’t, so on the first night without Lucy, Cormoran found the only space on the floor that someone wouldn’t walk across and began to lay out the puzzle pieces._

_Tonight was different. He had spent the day playing football with some boys he knew from the youth club he went to sometimes. He’d returned home as the light began to fade and started his ascent up the eight flights of stairs to the bedsit they had moved to three months ago. As he neared the top of the stairs he paused. Their flat was the one facing directly onto the stairwell and he could hear his mother shouting. He walked to the door and pulled his key from the chain around his neck. As he pushed the door open he heard a man’s voice and then a thud. Cormoran quickly ran inside and caught sight of his mother falling backwards into a chair as her new boyfriend, this one a bartender called Bobby, stood menacingly over her._

_“Stop it!” He shouted and ran over to stand in front of Leda._

_“It’s alright Cormoran.” Leda said as she sat up holding her left cheek. Cormoran moved closer to Bobby and took a deep breath._

_“Go away. Get out.” He shouted as loud as he could._

_“Cormoran, stop!” Leda said from behind._

_“Fuck off.” Bobby said, turning dark eyes on Cormoran._

_“You fuck off!” He shouted._

_“Cormoran!” Bobby smirked at Cormoran as Leda grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him roughly back. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the coffee table beside the chair and he fell with a jolt onto the empty plates and rubbish that adorned it. A blunt knife grazed his bare thigh just above the knee where his shorts had ridden up and Cormoran jumped up and out of his mother’s grasp with a shock. Bobby just laughed and kicked an empty beer can at him._

_“Bobby, don’t.” Leda said but her voice was quiet and when Cormoran looked up he saw her eyes watching Bobby and not him. He fled to the kitchen and crawled underneath the table to the far corner and pulled the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands as he listened to hushed voices and the sound of the front door opening and closing._

_“Cormoran?” Leda’s voice called._

_She crouched down in front of the chair he had pulled against the table as a makeshift door and smiled softly. She knocked on it twice with her knuckles and then scooted under the table._

_“Aren’t you a bit old to be making forts out of kitchen tables?” She asked gently._

_“I’m only eight.” He said with a look that contained a multitude._

_“Yeah.” Leda said sadly._

_Cormoran pulled the corner parts from the puzzle free in large sections and began throwing them back in the box._

_“Cormoran, darling don’t.” She warned as she grabbed his hands to stop him. “You’re nearly finished it.”_

_“I hate puzzles.” He said as he pulled a hand free and threw the lid of the box on top of the pieces._

_“No, you don’t. You love doing puzzles.” Leda said, her voice warm and comforting. She looked down athis leg and frowned._

_“Oh darling, I’m sorry.” Leda reached out and passed a finger softly over the graze on his leg._

_“It’s alright.” He lied._

_“No it’s not.” Leda pulled his chin up and looked deeply into his eyes. He was too wise for his own good, she thought. She remembered the mop of hair peeking out from the hospital blanket that first night she lay on her side watching him sleep. He was a big baby and yet seemed too small for the world that had claimed him. Before she knew it he was toddling away from her in parks and throwing toys into Lucy’s prom and then one day she woke to find a boy sitting at the kitchen table pouring his own cereal. He’s eight, she thought, and then wondered sadly how many more years she would have before she woke to find him as a man. Another man that would leave eventually._

_“My baby boy.” She said as she stroked his cheek and then brushed his hair out of his eyes. He looked up at her and smiled and she pulled him towards her._

_“I love you darling.” She said, placing a kiss on the top of his head._

_‘I know. I love you too.” Cormoran replied and hugged her tightly. Leda’s smile widened and her eyes seemed to shine in the dim light._

_“You’re alright.” Leda whispered into his ear._

* * *

“You’re alright.”

Everything around him seemed to morph into another time and place that he didn’t recognise. He was swaying gently now and felt someone gripping his shoulder tightly. He could hear pained moans and then someone’s hands on his face and a pressure on his nose. A cold mist was blasted into one of his nostrils and the shock of it caused him to jerk away but firm hands held him steady.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

A sudden energy shot through him and every nerve ending felt like it was on fire. Too much was happening inside, it was like his body was saturated with electricity and he was trapped, the outside world diminishing.

Someone rubbed their knuckles hard up and down his chest and the moans seemed to settle in his throat as his left eyelid was pulled back and a blinding white light was shone into it. A coldness was spreading up his arm and across his chest, the source coming from somewhere near his elbow. The hand left his shoulder and gripped his wrist tightly.

“Oggy?”

His head was spinning, as if he’d just laid down in bed after a night of heavy drinking, and he swallowed as saliva pooled into his mouth. He was being turned onto his side and something pulled from his face before he realised what was happening and then he was retching uncontrollably. He felt a hand brush across his forehead and for another moment he was back huddled under the table in a bedsit in Clapham. His nose and mouth were covered again and he moaned as a spike of pain drove itself into his stomach. He felt heavy then, like he was falling softly through the floor and the sounds around him became muffled before fading away completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I KNOW that Leda's POV really shouldn't have snuck in there because it's Strike's memory BUT I LOVE Leda and have a weakness for slipping her into my stories so if everyone would allow me poetic license here that'd be cool 😄
> 
> Thank you (once again) for reading and/or commenting! I appreciate it!


	6. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

**Chapter 6**

**I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.**

He could feel tremors running through him and felt a pressure on his upper arm. Strike felt heavy and as if he was floating at the same time, as though his body and mind had separated. Hands seemed to anchor him back down to earth, pulling him this way and that. He felt a coldness hit his skin as his clothes were pulled away but his arms wouldn't move to stop whoever was doing so. He was flat on his back and then rolled onto his side as the nausea returned. Someone rubbed painfully on his sternum. There was a pinch on the inside of his elbow when his arms finally obeyed his commands and moved, then there was a woman leaning down close to him and tapping his face as she explained something that he couldn’t follow.

He opened his eyes again and she was gone. He turned his head and saw that everything around him seemed to be in a soft focus, the detail of it all somehow muted. The room spun as he looked down his body and saw wires and tubes trailing from him to the side of the bed and somewhere behind his head. He saw that he was in a cubicle, blue curtains pulled back and he was alone. No, not alone. There was a dark figure in his line of sight. His heavy eyes closed before he could focus enough.

_‘Fuck’_ was his last thought as the sounds of the hospital lulled him back to sleep.

* * *

The ambulance had arrived at the hospital over an hour ago. Ilsa was on her way and the debate was still silently raging about whether they should call Lucy. As the paramedics bundled Strike into the ambulance Nick had stepped back looking shaken, as if the fact that it was Oggy lying lifeless on the stretcher had only hit him. He had turned to Robin, mouth open struggling for words, before taking a deep breathe and telling her he’d see her at the hospital. Robin was to follow in the Land Rover and he’d go with Cormoran and call Ilsa on the way.

Robin spent the drive in a soft haze. The Land Rover seemed quieter than ever and as she paused at red lights she watched people cross the road, as if it was any other normal day. As if the world was somehow holding its breath for her and moving on for them. After arriving at A&E she saw the reception desk and then fled in the other direction following the signs for the toilets situated at the end of the corridor. She prayed she wouldn’t catch a glimpse of him through the small windows in the various doors she passed. What would she do if she did? What if he was lying there cold and alone because….? She didn’t let herself finish the thought. She tried to breathe through it but was unable to stop the tears that flowed and then she was silently sobbing in the toilet cubicle.

Robin felt her chest tighten as she imagined the office in darkness. All the usual marks of his presence would be there; his jacket hanging on the coat rack, the smell of cigarette smoke hanging around his desk, the biscuit crumbs and tea bags in the kitchenette. She imagined all of the physical traces of him in her life; the “I Love Yorkshire” mug he had bought her to match his Cornwall one, the champagne cork in the drawer of her bedside table, the green dress hanging in her wardrobe. She thought of all these things and imagined his scowls, his smiles and his laughs and sobbed even more.

* * *

The first thing Nick did when the nurse brought him to Cormoran’s bed was look at the numbers on the monitor and then put his hand on Strike’s bare arm, ‘ _warm, alive_ ’, he thought. He grabbed the blanket that was lying across Strike’s legs and pulled it up to his chest and then sat on the hard plastic chair beside the bed and took a deep breath. Nick had known Cormoran a long time, their physical affection had developed from slaps and rugby tackles as teens to a rare hug on a wedding day or at a funeral. Now though he wanted nothing more than to shake his friend until he woke up and then hug the life out of him, no doubt earning an annoyed glare for his efforts.

“Oh God.” Nick whispered as he dropped his head and reached a hand out to grip Cormoran’s forearm tightly as the weight of events settled heavily on his shoulders.

* * *

An old woman smiled sadly at Robin as she self consciously wiped her eyes in front of the bathroom mirror using damp tissue to try and bring down the redness. With a deep breath she found the reception desk again and asked for Cormoran Strike. Upon being asked what her relationship was to him she simply replied ‘partner’. It wasn’t exactly a lie after all. As Robin was led past triage the nurse told her that they were keeping Cormoran in Resus and Robin felt the colour drain from her face. The blonde haired nurse, only a year or two older than herself Robin guessed, put a hand on her elbow and quickly explained that he wasn’t in any immediate danger, they often kept patients there when they wanted to keep a closer eye on them, especially when it was busy. It did nothing to settle Robin’s nerves and when they rounded the corner and she spotted Strike lying on a trolley she felt as though she had been punched in the stomach.

Nick was sitting at the head of Strike’s bed with his back to her. He had his head bowed with one hand covering his eyes and his other hand holding a bar on the side of the bed where the rail was raised. Strike’s head was only inches away from his hand. He was lying on his side, curled towards the edge of the bed and with a hand raised near Nick’s. Nick looked up and then around at them as he heard the nurse telling Robin she would be back soon. Searching Nick’s eyes, Robin hoped to find some reassurance, an explanation, hope. He just looked back at Strike and then down at the floor.

Robin moved towards the other side of the bed and pinched some of the rough blanket between her fingers. Strike had an oxygen mask on, clouding as he took a breath, and various wires and tubes flowed to and from the bed. She found herself looking at the machines by the head of his bed as if the numbers or beeps meant anything to her. The memory of a school biology class came vaguely back to her as she tried to determine how low or high his blood pressure was. Her eyes followed the tubes trailing from one of the machines to see that it led to an IV in his elbow and another led to the wires attached to his chest. A blanket was pulled up to his waist and a chart lay at the end of the bed where the rest of his leg would have been.

“They gave him another dose of Naloxone in the ambulance.” Nick said quietly from where he was now staring at Cormoran.

“Good.” Robin said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Yeah.” He said with a huff of cynical laughter and then let out a long breath.

“Ilsa’s on her way.”

“Did they say anything? How is he?” Robin queried.

“They only let me in to see him a few minutes ago.” Nick replied. Robin waited, expecting him to give some further comment, anything, but he just stayed silent.

“Do they know what happened to him?”

“An overdose.” Nick said quietly and reached a finger out to smooth the tape covering the needle in Strike’s arm.

A strange silence settled over them, Nick and Robin both wanting to assure the other and every nurse and doctor around them that this wasn’t an overdose, both wanting to contradict every medical test there was with their own knowledge about Strike.

Robin felt her bottom lip begin to tremble. There were a million reasons why she could find herself looking at Cormoran lying in a hospital bed, and if asked right now she would choose almost any of them over this, but Robin would never ever choose an overdose as the reason. What she knew about his mother’s death she knew from tabloid reports, gossip columns and wikipedia entries but she knew deep in her bones that he would never ever touch drugs because of it.

“He’s going to have the biggest hangover of his life when he wakes up.” Nick muttered.

“The hospital tea won’t be strong enough.” Robin replied, earning a smile from Nick.

They both moved to the edges of their seats as Cormoran moved an arm and then winced. The machine on Robin’s side of the bed gave an extra beep and Nick looked up at it and then back down. He grabbed Strike’s arm and pulled it closer to him and rubbed a thumb across his knuckles.

“Hey, Oggy? You awake?” Strike gave no acknowledgement that he had heard Nick and instead began turning onto his back and Nick let go of him. Before Robin could say anything a nurse appeared with a small tray and Robin moved out of the way and stood beside Nick.

“Cormoran?” The nurse said in a high pitched lilting tone.

“Come on, I need you to wake up.” She said, slightly louder this time as she tied a thick rubber band around his elbow. She pulled it back and let it snap against his skin and Robin saw him wince suddenly.

“I know you’re in there, I’m just going to keep annoying you until you open your eyes.” The nurse waited a second and then snapped the band again.

“Come on, let me see what colour those eyes are, yeah?” On the third attempt Strike pulled his elbow away and turned back towards them and Robin saw his eyes open slightly.

“There we go, look over here. Hey!” The nurse said as she waved a hand in front of him. Strike turned his head towards her and unfocused eyes landed on her.

“Green, huh? I would have gone with blue,” she turned to look at Robin and Nick, “I always guess wrong though.”

Strike’s eyes were dull but followed her sleepily as she put the tray on the bed beside him and pulled out an alcohol wipe. She started to wipe the inside of the elbow that was free of any tubes.

“You’re probably feeling like you had about fifty tequila shots last night but that stuff flowing into your other elbow is doing wonders, believe me.” The nurse said with a smile and Robin was instantly grateful for how warm she was. It was like a brush of colour had been throw against their dark canvas.

“We took some blood when you first arrived but I’m just going to take a little more, okay?” She didn’t wait for a response as Strike just blinked tiredly at her.

“Later you’re going to be brought for some tests but right now you’re probably going to go back to sleep for a while and these guys here can grab some lunch. Sound good?” She asked but Strike’s only answer was to close his eyes again. The nurse began taking blood samples and glanced at Nick and Robin.

“He won’t be up for much conversation for a while if you guys want to go and grab some food or a coffee?”

“No.” They both replied together.

“Honestly, he’s just going to sleep. I’ll be checking on him every fifteen minutes for the next two hours anyway, so he won’t be alone.” She smiled kindly at them as she finished with the blood test and untied the rubber band on his elbow. Nick and Robin looked reluctant but eventually moved to leave.

“We’ll be back Oggy mate.” Nick said.

As they left Robin heard the nurse speak to an unconscious Strike.

“What sort of a nickname is Oggy?”

* * *

Nick and Robin had walked aimlessly out of the Resus ward and then found themselves outside after Nick said he needed some air. They stood a few metres from the door looking like smokers who’d forgotten their cigarettes.

“Did he…” Nick voice trailed off and he looked away towards a car driving beyond the car park barriers.

“When you told Ilsa that he was acting strange, I thought… I don’t know what I thought.” Nick sounded frustrated and desperately sad at the same time. Robin took a step closer to him but he stepped away.

“He wouldn’t have taken anything. Not if he knew what it was. He wouldn’t, I’d bet my life on it, all our lives. Something… something must have happened.”

“I know.” Robin agreed quietly.

Nick’s shoulders sagged and Robin followed his gaze. She spotted Ilsa’s dark Volkswagen coming along the road towards the car park that was on the other side of the A&E entrance.

“I’ll just go and uh…” Nick said as he started to leave.

“Right. I’ll see you inside.” Robin turned and went in through the doors again. She looked back and saw Nick running between the barriers to follow Ilsa’s car.

For a moment she considered following the nurses advice and finding some food but instead she followed her feet as they began to carry her towards the curtained area and back to Strike. There was another patient a bed down from him now and the area seemed quieter somehow. Cormoran was on his side facing towards her with the head of the bed slightly raised now and his oxygen mask replaced with a cannula. A cardboard bowl lay beside him and his left arm was resting across the railings on the side of his bed. Robin walked over and pulled the cord from the pulse Ox monitor from where it was trapped beneath his other shoulder and pulling on his finger. She sat down and without thinking ran a hand through his hair as she closed her eyes and felt them water. The machine by the top of his bed gave a two tone beep and then another and Robin looked around with a mild sense of panic but no one came rushing over.

“Oh god, Cormoran.” She said as she threaded her fingers in his. The words came out thickly and she smiled sadly thinking of the remark he would make about her accent.

“Corm!” Ilsa’s voice made her jump and she felt Strike’s fingers twitch against hers. His eyes were still shut though.

Ilsa came up behind her and put a hand on Robin’s shoulder and another on Strike’s cheek. His eyes opened for barely a second but Robin saw that they were unfocused.

“Hey Corm, it’s me.” Ilsa said softly, as though she was talking to a sick child, Robin thought.

“What did the doctor say?” Ilsa asked as she turned and looked at Nick.

Nick opened his mouth to speak but at the same Strike suddenly became agitated and turned in the bed, reaching blindly out and bashing his hand against Ilsa’s side.

“Oggy?” Nick asked as Ilsa moved to grab Strike’s hand. At the last second Robin realised that his face had paled and saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down and she grabbed the cardboard bowl beside the bed.

Nick quickly pulled Strike forward and grabbed the bowl from Robin just as Strike began to vomit. The nurse from earlier appeared and took the bowl and Robin felt herself being ushered back to the bottom of the bed.

“You’re alright.” The nurse repeated as Strike winced and groaned.

Robin looked away awkwardly and watched as Ilsa absentmindedly rubbed circles along Nick’s back where they stood together. The nurse was moving about now, returning the bowl to the small trolley by the bed and untangling various wires and tubes. Robin heard Strike hiccup and looked up to see that his eyes were open. She felt a heavy weight settle in her chest as he turned bleary eyes towards her and frowned. He looked deathly pale, the darkness of his hair and stubble accentuating his pallor, with dark smudges under his eyes and deep lines across his forehead. There was a vacant look in his eyes but as he watched Robin she saw them sharpen with anxiety.

”Cormoran?” The nurse said and Ilsa, Nick and Robin all looked to the monitor by the bed as it emitted a loud beep that was out of sync with the other rhythmic ones.

“Can you guys move outside please?” The nurse said as she pressed various buttons on the machine that was connected to his I.V.

“Is he alright?” Ilsa asked. Strike’s eyes were darting around the room now and the beeps of the machine became faster.

“Sam, could you grab Dr. Fitzgerald for me? He should be in cubicle six.” The nurse said to a woman dressed in scrubs who was passing just outside the curtain.

“What’s wrong?” Ilsa asked the nurse again before turning to Nick, “What’s happening?”

Robin turned to Nick and saw that he was watching Strike intently, but the air left her lungs when she realised that he looked scared.

Strike’s head was pressed back against his pillow now and his skin had changed from a ghostly shade of white to a flushed red. The heart monitor started to ping in a steady high pitched procession that somehow managed to sound daunting to Robin. She saw the nurse press a button and the display on the little screen changed. Cormoran’s breaths were coming quicker and the nurse pulled an oxygen mask from where it hung behind his bed.

“Can you wait outside please?” The nurse said again, this time her tone was enough to shake Robin from her frozen stance. She felt Ilsa’s hand grab hers but Robin couldn’t drag her eyes away from the panic on Strike’s face, his eyes now wide and his features morphed by a look of pain. Ilsa pulled on her hand again and Robin moved away, being dragged along gently when all she wanted was to give in to the pull she felt towards Strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading!


	7. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I very nearly uploaded chapter 9 instead of 7. My heart rate was pretty much mirroring Strike's at the end of the last chapter there. 😂

Chapter 7

**I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed**

* * *

All three were sitting on a short row of chairs in a dimly lit corridor. After being ushered away from Cormoran by the nurse another had appeared and shown them to a waiting area out of the way. Robin had briefly caught sight of Cormoran being wheeled past the end of the corridor and Nick had stood, as if to follow, but then returned to his seat. His face had been obscured by the porter navigating him through a doorway. Nothing had happened since, save for Ilsa responding to work emails and Nick calling a colleague to arrange cover for his shift.

“Why aren’t they telling us anything?” Ilsa complained, throwing her phone with force into her bag on the floor in frustration.

“It’s not on purpose Ils,” Nick replied. “They’ll have taken him for tests. And they have other patients.”

“It’s a Tuesday morning, how busy could they be?” She responded.

Robin felt her phone vibrate in her pocket but ignored it. A thousand thoughts were running through her mind, all of them relating to the question none of them had addressed; how and why had Cormoran suffered a drug overdose.

“Someone’s done this.” Robin said, more to herself than to Nick or Ilsa.

“This?” Nick asked.

“Whatever has happened to Cormoran, he couldn’t have... wouldn’t have-“ Robin faltered, feeling the threat of tears spring forth again.

“Of course not.” Ilsa gripped Robin’s hand tightly.

Ilsa looked around at Nick. He was quietly staring at the ground, the now constant look of worry on his face.

“Right Nick?” Ilsa asked.

“Yeah.” He said quietly and both Robin and Ilsa looked at him.

“You don’t think Corm would have used drugs willingly?” Ilsa asked, shock and anger in her voice.

“Of course not! I’m just... I’m still scared. I thought I was gonna watch my best mate die the same way his-“ Nick stopped himself and let out an unsteady breath before continuing, “I thought he was gonna die Ils.”

Ilsa turned and wrapped her arms around her husband, felling him take a shuddering breath.

Robin looked away as the image of Strike on the floor of the office came to mind again. She heard Ilsa kiss Nick and felt a raw ache of need to wrap her arms around Cormoran. She wanted the smell of cigarettes and his cologne, not antiseptic. She wanted the touch of his lips on her hand and the scratchy feel of his wool coat, not the plastic chair her hand gripped tightly.

“He didn’t die. He’s going to be fine. And there’s a line of people waiting to wring the neck of whoever did this.” Ilsa said with conviction, as much to comfort Nick as Robin.

They sat together, Ilsa with an arm around Nick and her hand holding Robin’s. Something had shifted. Robin felt a sense of hope, that Cormoran would be fine, that some psychopath from the nutter drawer had done this and they would be locked away by Wardle never to come near her partner again. Then everything would be normal once more. Robin took some steady breaths, counting as she inhaled and exhaled. Everything would be fine.

“Why can’t it be like last time? We knew what was happening then.” Ilsa complained, checking her watch and leaning forward in her chair to look down the end of the corridor.

“Should we call Lucy?” She asked, question directed at both Nick and Robin.

“No.” Nick replied.

“She’s his sister Nick, she should-“

“No, Ilsa.”

“Nick.” Robin urged, knowing that if it was her brother she’d want to know. But then, Lucy and Strike had a very different relationship than Robin and her brothers.

“No! I’m not calling Lucy and telling her that her brother has overdosed, that we don’t know what’s happened or even if he’s okay.” He looked pointedly at both Ilsa and Robin, reminding them clearly why Lucy wouldn’t react well to the situation.

“He’s going to be okay Nick.” Robin said.

“Is he? What about the side effects, the lasting damage, the fact that someone has fucking done this to him?” Nick countered, trying to control his anger. “We don’t call Lucy. Not yet. If it was anything else then alright, but not... not this. Oggy can call her himself when he’s lucid, but not now.”

Ilsa opened her mouth to respond but all three stood at once when a doctor appeared in front of them. His tie was blue, Robin noticed, and the lanyard around his neck had a dozen novelty pins attached to it.

“You’re here with Mr Strike?”

“Yes, how is he? Robin responded quickly.

“He’s stable and I’m happy with how he’s doing.” The doctor smiled upon seeing Nick, Ilsa and Robin all let out a sigh of relief.

“What about his heart? He was having palpitations when we left.” Nick asked.

“That’s not unexpected, his body experienced a huge amount of stress in a very concentrated time frame but his heart looks good and strong, I don’t see anything that would concern me.”

“And his urine levels? His kidneys are okay?” Nick questioned.

The doctor looked at him with a wary gaze.

“Has he overdosed before?” The doctor asked.

“No!” Both Nick and Robin exclaimed.

“I’m a doctor.” Nick explained, earning a nod and a smile from the doctor.

“Well then you’ll know that it’s still early days, but I’m happy with how he’s doing and so far I don’t predict any lasting damage.” The doctor placed emphasis on each word and smiled warmly at all three of them. Robin was grateful for how reassuring he sounded.

“Oh, thank god for that.” Ilsa whispered.

“I’ve ordered a echocardiogram just to double check his heart,” seeing Robin’s eyes widen he quickly continued, “but again, he looks good, I just like to be thorough. He’s already had blood and urine tests, we’re monitoring his temperature, his oxygen levels and his breathing-“

“And what about a chest x-ray? He threw up in the-“ Nick began to explain but the doctor held up his hand.

“Yes, doctor,” he began with a smile and Nick looked sheepish. “He’s in radiology as we speak, but his lungs sound good. No signs of fluid in them.”

“Sorry.” Nick apologised.

“That’s okay. I know it’s hard to put down the stethoscope when there’s a loved one involved. I’m keeping him on a low dose of naloxone for another hour or two to make sure we’re in control of his side effects and that he doesn’t re-overdose. We’re having some trouble keeping his blood pressure at a steady rate, but again that’s not out of the ordinary. Actually the heart palpitations worked in his favour in that respect because heroin lowers a person’s blood pressure to a dangerous-“

“Heroin?” Ilsa gasped.

“Yes.” The doctor’s expression turned grim.

“He didn’t take it willingly.” Nick said firmly. The doctor looked away, used to the denial of family members of drug addicts.

“Well, we’ll-“

“He wouldn’t. I’m not just in denial about this, I’m telling you he wouldn’t.”

“Look-“

“Did you find track marks?” Robin asked and the doctor looked at her thoughtfully.

“Actually no.”

“Any evidence that he abuses drugs?” She pressed on.

“No.” He offered. “But people overdose their first time, if they don’t know how much-“

“He’d know how much.” Nick said, drawing Ilsa’s eyes to him.

“His mother Leda had a lot of boyfriends who… weren’t exactly knights in shining armour. He’s been around drugs. He’d know how much to use if he… anyway Leda died of a heroin overdose. There’s no way he’d touch the stuff, never in a million years.” Nick argued.

Nick watched the doctor, as if calling his bluff and waiting for his cards to fold.

“Well, I’m sure Mr Strike will be able to explain everything to us soon. If you’ll excuse me I have rounds to make, a nurse will be with you soon when he’s ready for visitors.” All three said their thanks and then sank back into their chairs as the doctor left with a tight smile.

“You knew it was heroin?” Ilsa asked Nick quietly.

“I wasn’t sure but I’d guessed. His breathing, his pupils, his pulse, the muscle spasms. His lips and nail beds had started to turn blue.” Nick looked away, not wanting to continue and regretting what he’d said when he saw Ilsa and Robin’s faces. He’d also been worried about brain damage but Strike’s breathing, as slow and laboured as it had gotten, hadn’t stopped completely even when Nick had begun giving him rescue breaths. He also knew that the doctor would have told them if they were about to be taken to see a comatose and brain damaged Cormoran.

Robin felt a heavy weight drop into her chest. The stark fear that had assaulted her the moment she’d seen Cormoran on the floor had blinded her to all of the smaller details that Nick had mentioned.

“Christ.” Ilsa sighed.

“I’m just going to make a phone call.” Robin stood abruptly and with a quick glance at them was gone.

* * *

_He felt strange, weak and heavy, his bones weighing too much and his stomach kept churning. He thought he was shaking but couldn’t be sure._

_“It’s alright baby.”_

_He opened his eyes as Leda’s hand brushed across his forehead, but they soon drifted shut again._

_“Mum, please?” He recognised Lucy’s voice and felt the bed shift as she stood._

_“Shh, you’ll upset him.” Leda replied harshly. Cormoran opened his eyes again and Leda’s face moved closer. She looked worried, an emotion not indulged often by his mother._

_“Mum!” Lucy said, firmly now and Cormoran’s brows furrowed. Lucy rarely stood up to Leda about anything, neither of them did. He spotted Shanker in the corner of the room, his expression grim as he looked from Leda to Lucy._

_“He doesn’t need a doctor darling, he’s fine. He just needs to drink more and then he’ll be fine.” A glass was pressed to his lips and Cormoran pulled away as the smell of ginger and something else turned his stomach._

_“It’s not helping! He’s not fine!” The glass disappeared and then Cormoran heard something shatter._

_“Lucy!” Leda shouted and his eyes opened long enough for Cormoran to see Lucy push Leda forcibly away. She fell back onto Lucy’s bed on the other side of the small room and Shanker stood, walking closer to Cormoran._

_“Mum?” Cormoran said, surprised at how weak his voice sounded._

_Lucy turned and he watched as she took a bag from the floor and started shoving things into it: a jumper, a water bottle, her purse and his notebook. It was the one that he kept all their relevant information in like schools attended, previous addresses, medical history, Joan and Ted’s address. They moved often enough that he sometimes wondered if they were leaving much of a trace on the earth._

_“Come on Stick.” She said as she put her hands under his shoulders and began to pull him up. The room spun and he moaned as fire laced up from his stomach to his chest._

_“Stick, please, you have to help me.” He saw Shanker rush forward and then he was suddenly upright. The dizziness had only increased but somehow Lucy managed to keep him on his feet before Shanker put his around his waist. The part of his mind that hadn’t fully surrendered to how sick he felt reminded him that Lucy wasn’t as strong as he was and he shifted more of his weight away from her and onto his own feet._

_“Lucy, stop it-“_

_“Get out of our way.” Lucy shouted. She started guiding him through the room towards the door and Cormoran’s every thought narrowed towards putting one foot in front of the other, the doorway being at the end of the dark tunnel in his vision. He could feel Shanker’s grip get tighter._

_“Cormoran darling, sit back down.”_

_“Leave him alone.” Lucy said sharply and then her voice softened and seemed to whisper into his ear, “That’s it Stick. You’ll feel better soon, we’ll be fine.”_

_They were through the living room now and near the front door and as Lucy pulled it open the light from outside blinded Cormoran. He heard Leda distantly behind him, shouting as Lucy and Shanker adjusted their grip on him._

_“Don’t leave! Cormoran?” She shouted._

* * *

He came awake slowly. His eyes blinking heavily and his mind suddenly empty. He felt like he hadn’t quite entered reality yet, like he was an outside spectator. A nurse appeared and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Your mum a fan of birds?” She asked and he looked blankly at her, capable only of letting out a long sigh.

“You know, Cormorants. The birds. Well, I thought it was a good joke anyway.” She said as she replaced a temperature sensor on his stomach that had partially come away and then pulled his gown back up to loosely cover his chest.

“Hm?” He asked, not quite sure what his question was but knowing there were many he should be asking. His body felt like it was moulded to the mattress and even lifting a finger felt like too much of a challenge right now. Strike watched her and felt his mind begin to zone out, he couldn’t seem to focus properly.

“Do you know where you are?” She asked, leaning down and watching his eyes intently.

“Hosp’” He mumbled and she seemed satisfied.

“How are you feeling?”

His eyes slid shut as he thought. For once he could barely feel any twinge of pain or tiredness in his knee or stump. It was the rolling of his stomach that had begun in earnest now and the aching of his muscles and the headache that took centre stage.

He moaned a response and the nurse clearly took it as a negative.

“Well that’s to be expected I’m afraid. Just remember this the next time, okay?” She said, her expression turning from playful to serious.

He watched as she grabbed his chart from the bottom of the bed and began writing things down, glancing at the machines as she went. His mind began to catch up and he tried to remember why he was in a hospital bed. He clutched at any memory that would come forth. He saw John Bristow coming at him with a bottle of whisky but then he morphed into Noel Brockbank. He saw Lucy and Shanker’s worried faces and then Nick’s swam into view. Then a soldier was above him and pulling a tourniquet from his pocket.

“Cormoran?”

He opened his eyes and there was Robin, standing at the end of his bed and looking so young. His mind drifted to another time.

_What do you want from me?_

“Cormoran?” She said again and he realised he was staring blankly at her. The nurse was gone and he wondered how much time had passed. The ghost of a memory passed through his mind, of Robin walking ahead of him down Tottenham Court Road, but then she vanished before his eyes. He felt his chest shudder and a tingle run up his spine.

“Rob’n.” His voice sounded slurred, the ‘r’ morphing into a ‘w’ and the ‘b’ too big for his mouth.

She walked forward swiftly and grabbed his hand where it lay on the bed.

“Y’re real.” He whispered.

She looked at him deeply and he saw her bottom lip and chin tremble. The part of his brain that wasn’t consumed with how beautiful she looked, flushed cheeks and hair falling around her face, began to leak worry into his thoughts.

“‘m not dyin’.” He said quietly, hoping that some sort of a smile had made its way to his face, and squeezed her hand.

Robin took a shuddering breath and he saw tears spring in her eyes.

“Hey. ‘m not am I?” He asked, half jokingly but suddenly wishing he had asked the nurse what was going on. Robin huffed a laugh and wiped a tear from her cheek.

“No.” She said.

“Rob’n?” He wanted to ask more but couldn’t pluck up the energy. _What’s happening? Why are you so upset?_

“It’s alright. You’re alright.” She said.

“Are you?” He asked and felt the pull of an oxygen cannula against his cheeks as he turned his head slightly.

She smiled, her eyes watery, and pulled his hand closer so she could rub her other hand up and down the inside of his forearm. It was soothing and Cormoran felt his eyes drift shut again. Minutes or seconds later, he couldn’t tell which, he felt his arm placed gently back on the bed.

“Couldn’t have just got stabbed like everyone else?” Wardle’s voice loudly announced his arrival.

Strike opened his eyes and looked past Robin, focusing blearily on Wardle who was pulling the blue cubicle curtain closed behind him.

“You look a right fucking state Gooner.” He said with a sigh and Strike wondered vaguely if it was meant to put him at ease.

“Wardle!” Robin blurted out. Strike looked back at her and saw that the broken look on her face had been replaced by annoyance.

“What? He looks worse than the guy two beds down and they’re just about ready to pronounce him-“

“Wardle!” Robin repeated with a glare. Strike felt an amused smile pull at his lips.

“Alright, alright.” He said, holding his hands up in surrender. Wardle walked closer to the bed and Strike was hit with a wave of dizziness as his eyes followed him.

“So, heroin?” The detective said with a tilt of his head.

Strike furrowed his brows in confusion and then looked to Robin and felt his stomach plummet through the bed and a rush of air leave his lips as she looked at the floor.

“Robin?”

“That’s… Cormoran, what do you remember?” She asked, a serious and measured tone to her voice.

_Nothing_ , he thought worryingly. He remembered the panic attack and talking to Robin, he vaguely remembered sending her a text to say he was waiting on Ab and then… nothing. He looked around the cubicle he was in and became more agitated, an image of Nick’s face, blurry and worried, filled his mind and he remembered a feeling of the most intense fear and doom he could imagine. An anxiousness filled his chest and he heard the heart monitor beside him give an extra ping.

“Heroin? No, it… what?… why do you-“ He could hear the desperate and raw edge to his voice. An image of Leda flashed into his mind. Cold hands, black eyes, blue lips. He looked up and Wardle and Robin were both watching him carefully.

“I didn’t… It can’t-“

“Oggy?” It was Nick’s voice that stopped Cormoran from spiralling into complete panic. He and Ilsa had appeared at the bottom of the bed and Nick glanced up and down Wardle as he moved past him to get closer to Strike.

“Nick, what-“ The rest of the sentence was caught in his throat and he felt Robin’s hand return to his.

“It’s alright. I know Oggy. It’s alright.” There was something in Nick’s eyes that contained a multitude; every moment of friendship, every time they had bailed each other out and every time they had picked each other up, all the times someone had looked at him with sympathy or malice as a bastard child and all the times Leda’s choices had been to his detriment Nick had been there. With a joke or a place to stay or an arm around his shoulder, Nick had always been there.

“I didn’t-“

“I know.” Nick repeated, allowing him to leave everything unsaid, allowing him to leave Leda alive and warm in his mind and not dragged from a downfallen grave to be paraded as evidence.

“I _know_ Oggy.” Nick turned to Wardle, his eyes ablaze, “Look, I don’t know who called you but you can-“

“Christ, you auditioning to be his sponsor?” Wardle asked casually as he draped an arm on a discarded machine.

“Excuse me?” Ilsa said, stepping forward between Wardle and Cormoran.

“Ilsa.” Cormoran said hoarsely and reached an arm out to her.

“Look relax, Robin called me. And as much as him supporting Arsenal suggests a lack of basic good judgement,” Wardle said, throwing a look at Strike, “I like to think I’d know if I had a heroin addict consulting on cases.”

Nick and Ilsa looked at each other, their faces softening, albeit warily.

“Well now that your guard dogs have stood down-“

“Wardle.” Robin warned tiredly.

“Alright, alright.” He capitulated, rolling his eyes before moving to address Strike. “I’m on your side here. I caught your doctor on the way in, your blood tests showed up positive for heroin, yes, but also for traces of sedatives.”

“Sedatives?” Robin and Ilsa both said.

“The doctor says you’re not going through withdrawals, it’s just the side effects of the overdose and the drugs they’ve given you, so the heroin was a once off. But he thinks you’ve been given the sedative more than once.” Wardle continued explaining to Strike.

“Fuck.” Robin whispered.

“So what exactly have you gotten yourself involved in?” Wardle asked Strike, his tone serious and belaying the concern felt by everyone in the room. Robin found herself drawn to Wardle’s face, seeing a trace of worry hidden under his usual bravado.

“I… I don’t….” Strike’s face was twisted in confusion as he struggled to pull any kind of theory together.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Robin asked gently.

“Clearly?” He said, swallowing against a wave of nausea. “Sending you that text.” He replied and Wardle looked at Robin.

“That was last night. Just before six.” Robin explained.

“Where were you when you sent it?” Ilsa asked.

“We were meeting at a pub, just to get coffee. He doesn’t drink.” Strike said, his headache spiking the more he tried to focus. He pulled at the Oxygen cannula where it was digging into his cheek.

“Who, Ab?” Robin asked.

“Ab?” Wardle repeated.

“A client. I can send you his case notes.” Robin replied and Wardle nodded.

“Where were you getting coffee Corm?” Ilsa’s brows were furrowed and she looked down and noticed his hands were trembling.

Strike frowned. He could remember a pub and it must have been local to the office but it wasn’t one of his usuals. He remembered ordering a coffee and then everything after was a blank. He looked at Nick as a thought dawned on him.

“The coffee was bitter.” He said and Nick dropped his head and shook it in anger.

“Bingo.” Wardle said.

“The sedative?” Robin said and Nick and Wardle nodded, “Why would Ab drug you? Why would he do this?” Robin said looking down the bed and at the monitors attached to Cormoran, her own brow furrowed.

Strike winced as a spike of pain shot through his head. The colours in the room were beginning to bleed into each other as he dragged his eyes around the room. He felt dizzy and like he was sliding sideways in the bed.

“Corm?” Ilsa asked.

“I’m fine.” He said, his eyes shut now as rode out the pain. It felt like a pressure building at the bottom of his skull and then digging through to the top of his head.

“Look, maybe we should go.” Wardle said, looking pointedly at Robin.

Robin nodded reluctantly. Every part of her wanted to stay with Strike. He still looked so pale and wrung out that she hadn’t quite been able to convince her mind that he was okay. The image of him on the floor, of Nick’s look of terror, kept coming back to her. But she also now needed to find Ab and figure out what the hell was going on.

They said their goodbyes, Robin going with Wardle in his car and Ilsa and Nick staying a while longer. Robin looked back and caught Strike’s eyes one last time just as the blue cubicle curtain swung shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, what are you guys's theories so far? Has Strike pissed off a drugs gang that ran out of bullets so had to get creative? Did the person he dropped a Pot Noodle worth of piss out the window on in Cuckoo's Calling finally get his/her revenge? Tune in tomorrow when all will not be revealed cause this thing is 13 (actually looking like 14) chapters long but the investigation will begin! Thanks for reading and hope everyone is having a good day!
> 
> p.s. Is anyone surprised that I managed to sneak Leda in again? 😂


	8. And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> under_my_blue_umbrella pointed something out in one of her comments that I wanted to clarify. In the last chapter the doctor confirms that Strike doesn't have any track marks, what I meant by this is that he doesn't have the usual track marks of a regular heroin user. He does of course have ONE injection mark (mentioned in passing in a later chapter) cause that's how he ended up with it in his system. I could have had him smoke it but good lord his lungs have taken enough of a battering without adding that to it, lol. Just wanted to clarify cause I don't think I was clear when I wrote it :) Back to regular proceedings....

Chapter 8

**And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.**

Robin had listened to Wardle on the phone as he relayed the update on Strike’s case to his partner Vanessa. She was going to meet a forensics unit at Denmark Street to go through the office and Strike’s flat for any trace of the suspect or the drugs used on Strike. Wardle and Robin made it to Strike’s flat ahead of forensics and Robin grabbed Strike’s laptop and Ab’s case notes while Wardle had a quick look around. They continued on then to New Scotland Yard.

“You know his password?” Wardle asked as Robin logged onto her partner’s laptop.

“I need to know it for work.” Robin said, a little defensively.

“Right.” Wardle said before adding, “I know married couples that don’t know each other’s passwords.”

“Wardle, bugger off.” Robin said angrily. She felt like she’d lived through a lifetime in just one day and didn’t have the patience to deal with his insinuations. The detective just raised his eyebrows and smirked.

Strike’s laptop wasn’t completely impersonal, the screensaver was a generic Arsenal one that was one of the first results of a google image search, the crest with a black background, and there were folders in the top left corner marked ‘Lucy’s 35th’, ’Cornwall’, ’Family’, ’Army’ and ‘Leg docs&physio’. Robin was reminded of the time she’d convinced him to show her a picture from Nick and Ilsa’s wedding and noticed he pulled it from the ‘Family’ folder. At the furthest point from these, the bottom right corner, there was one marked ‘W’. She clicked into the folder in the middle of the screen marked ‘Work’, containing various subfolders relating to invoices, bills, expenses, and opened up their case files. Strike had them alphabetised by client surname and and each folder contained various subfolders with everything logged meticulously.

Robin emailed the case notes on Ab to Wardle so they could print them while they watched the CCTV and talk through them afterwards. Strike’s laptop and notebook would be taken as evidence, the original notes and his emails to and from Ab scoured through by forensics. Robin thought of Strike, lying in hospital, his laptop now evidence in a case, reinforcing the fact that her giant of a partner had been made a victim.

“What’s his real name?” Wardle asked.

“Eric White. He’s an artist and photographer. Or he’s supposed to be.” Robin said.

“Supposed to be?”

“Google him and you’ll find nothing. No website with his work, no past exhibitions, nothing.”

“And Strike just went along with his story?”

“Well, he had his suspicions but he thought at worst he was just some failed egotist artist maybe trying to drum up controversy. And he was paying our full rates.” Robin explained, Wardle just shook his head.

Wardle pulled up the CCTV footage of Denmark Street. They knew from his text that Strike was waiting for Ab at around 6pm but they had no idea what time he had arrived home. Robin’s eyes were beginning to water and go dry as they sat eagle eyed watching the fast forwarded footage of crowds slowly peter out as the evening turned to night.

“Why are you two calling him Ab?” Wardle asked, his eyes still on the screen in front of them as he took a sip of his coffee.

“Short for aberration.” Robin said and then looked at Wardle and caught his look of confusion.

“Sorry. Ab’s first email was full of photography terminology and Cormoran and I ended up having to google most of it. Aberration was one we argued about.” Robin said, the ghost of a smile on her face.

“Right.” Wardle said, his eyes back on the screen.

“So what does it mean?” Wardle asked after a few moments.

“Aberration? In photography terms a distortion of image quality or colour because of an unsuitable lens. But in usual terms it means a departure from what is normal, usually an unwelcome one.” She explained and Wardle raised an eyebrow.

“What did Strike think it meant?”

“He thought it meant something irregular or off the beaten track. It comes from the Latin ‘aberrare’-“

“and that means?”

“To stray or wander. Or do wrong.” She supplied and then suddenly pointed at the screen.

“There!”

Strike’s form had just appeared on screen from the far end of the street. Wardle scribbled something down and Robin started running the names of pubs through her head from that side of Soho. The time stamp on the CCTV footage said it was just after 7pm. He was staggering along, his head down and his balance swinging widely. He paused, a hand reaching for the shop front beside him and then moved on. Robin had seen him in varying degrees of drunkenness but to know that his unsteady state was due to someone drugging him made her feel sick.

“Cormoran.” Robin said softly.

Why hadn’t she called him? Why hadn’t she trusted her gut and waited at the office until he returned? _He wouldn’t be in hospital now if you’d been there_ , Robin thought.

Strike paused at the door, digging in his pockets before finally pulling his keys free. Eventually he got the door open and Wardle leaned forward as Strike stumbled in the door.

“Knew it!” Wardle said. He rewound the footage and pointed a man out to Robin. He was around Strike’s height, wearing dark clothing, the light on the street making it difficult to decipher any details. Wardle and Robin watched as he made his way down the street, holding back each time Strike slowed down or paused. Robin felt anger bubble up as she watched him stalk Strike to their office door. The man paused as Strike disappeared through the door and then lunged for it just before it closed.

“Is that Ab?” Wardle asked but Robin just shrugged.

“Could be, I never met him.”

“Couldn’t have walked under a streetlight and looked directly at the camera, could you? Fucker.” Wardle muttered as he scribbled notes.

“Strike was only given the heroin this morning. What did he do, just sit in the office all night waiting for him to come down this morning?”

“If he even let Strike out of his sight. The bastard could have sat and watched him as he slept for all we know. I’m surprised Strike even made it up the stairs, the state he was in.” Wardle threw his pen down on the desk and then rang Vanessa to update her and suggest some things to the forensic team.

Robin thought of Strike being watched all night and shuddered, kicking herself mentally again for not calling him. _He wouldn’t have been able to answer_ , she reassured herself. Suddenly a thought occurred to her.

“Wait! Rewind it.”

Wardle rewound the tape and Robin leaned forward until the man dressed in black was nearly at the office door. She hit the pause button herself.

“I think I saw him, this morning.”

“What? Where?” Wardle asked, sitting up in his chair now that he could smell a lead.

“I met Nick outside the office, we were going to talk to Strike about…” Robin’s voice trailed off, “oh my god.” She sighed.

“For fuck’s sake, what?” Wardle said, getting impatient with Robin’s vagueness.

“Cormoran had been acting strange, forgetting things and well-“

“Well?”

“He rang me, saying something about the tube and talking as if he had just seen me on the street but I was in bed.”

“Couldn’t have just been a doppelgänger?”

“He sounded so sure, I just… I thought he’d been drinking but now-“

“When was this?” Wardle asked.

“Last week, Tuesday.”

“And you said he was acting strange?”

“He was touchy, even paranoid, kept getting defensive about things. And he mistook a Nissan for a Bentley. It was for a case I’d been working on, he took pictures of the car and seemed genuinely shocked when I confronted him about it. And he… he had a panic attack yesterday.”

“Is that a normal occurrence?” Wardle asked knowing he’d never seen Strike have one but also knowing that he’d had his leg blown off and that didn’t usually happen without some psychological consequences.

“No.”

“So the doctor was probably right, someone has been slipping him the sedative over a period of time.” Wardle mused. “That would explain some of his behaviour, maybe even the panic attack. You said you saw him?”

“This morning, I was waiting out on the street for Nick and a man was walking in front of him. I can’t be sure, but his frame and the way he walks, I don’t know it feels like it could be him.”

“Did you get a look at his face?”

“Not enough to be able to pick him out of a line-up. I wasn’t concentrating on him, I was looking for Nick.”

“Did you see him leave the office?” Wardle pressed.

“I was looking the other way and by the time I looked around he and Nick had passed the office door.”

Robin put her head in her hands. She was so close, her and Nick were on the street below as Cormoran was overdosing.

“Hey, you couldn’t have known.” Wardle said and in a rare show of affection put his hand on her shoulder.

“But if that was him then he was right there, he walked right passed us.” Robin said, voice raised in frustration and a detective nearby looked over at Wardle.

They sat through the sped up CCTV as the night deepened. At points Robin had to check the time stamp to make sure the tape was still moving, the street utterly deserted in the dead of night. No one came or went from the office and as the morning crept in early risers began passing in the street.

“So he stayed all night.” Wardle said.

There was nothing of note until Robin spotted herself arriving on Denmark street. Both Wardle and Robin leaned forward when Nick appeared from the direction of the tube station. It was clear now that the man who had entered behind Strike was the same man Robin had seen walking in front of Nick. Wardle zoomed in and slowed the footage down, trying to get a clear image of the man’s face but it was of no use, he had tilted his head at just the right angle so evade giving the cameras a proper view of his face.

“Fuck’s sake.” Wardle exclaimed.

“He must have known where the cameras were.” Robin said and Wardle looked at her, both of them acknowledging that a worrying amount of research had gone into the suspect’s plan.

“Look, you should get some rest. Go home, relax, check up on Strike.” Wardle said as he sat back and rubbed his eyes. Robin looked at her watch and realised it was nearly 7pm, they’d been watching so much footage and reading through so many notes that she hadn’t been able to keep track of the time. It felt like no time had passed but it also felt like days since she’d slept.

“You too, you look tired. It’s been a long day for all of us.” Robin sighed.

“No, I’m good. Anyway, I’m used to it.”

“Even when it’s someone you know?” She asked.

“Fuck off, I’m not about to cry over Strike.” He said, the undercurrent of a smile causing Robin to exhale a huff of laughter. “I’m gonna grab Vanessa and pay a visit to this studio that Strike’s file mentions. I’ll call you in the morning, yeah?” Wardle said as he stood to see her out.

Robin made her way home in a daze on the tube, almost missing her stop as she ran through possible motives in her head and tried somehow to focus the image of the man walking in front of Nick in her mind. She wondered whether Vanessa had already begun sifting through the nutter drawer back at the office. Maybe she’d find a note that could be traced to Ab.

Robin returned home and headed straight for her bed before collapsing on it. A wall of exhaustion had hit her on the walk from the tube station and as she felt her body sink into her bed she imagined Strike in the same position. She closed her eyes and imagined the smokey smell that would invade her room if he was here, the musky scent of his cologne that would drift towards her as he turned his head to look at her. She wondered how much of the bed he would take up and what side he would want to sleep on. Her fingers twitched as she thought of reaching out to the side and finding his chest or hand or hip. She took a deep breath and felt herself transported to the car park of the hospital where Jack had been treated. She felt the scratch of Strike’s stubble on her skin and the warmth of his lips on hers.

Robin sat up suddenly in her darkening room and frowned. Not for the first time she felt like her thoughts were waging war on her peace of mind.

* * *

_“My baby boy.”_

Cormoran came awake with a start. He looked around the room and in a moment that was becoming ever rarer these days he half expected to see the body that accompanied that voice. No matter what she had done or where she had ended up the night before, Leda was always the first of them to wake on a special day. Birthdays, Christmas, the morning of a school trip, she would appear at the bottom of their beds singing one of her favourite songs and pulling clothes from the wardrobe or duffle bag, depending on their living situation at the time, while the toast began to burn. For his twelfth birthday she had pulled him from bed insisting that he sing along to Blue Oyster Cult’s newest song, Dancin' in the Ruins, while Lucy spread blackcurrant jam on his toast and then helped him open his presents when Leda hugged him and refused to let go, sitting with her cheek on his shoulder and her arms wrapped around his chest. He doesn’t remember what he got that year but he remembers Leda asking him never to grow up as all three of them queued for tickets to see Little Shop of Horrors.

For years after her death Cormoran had sometimes imaged her there at the bottom of his bed, in those moments between wakefulness and dreaming.

It was some time around midnight when he woke, that much Cormoran could tell. He had been wheeled up to a ward shortly after Nick and Ilsa left and that had been his undoing. Or rather his newest affliction on a decidedly downward spin. The hospital seemed to turn into a maze as the porter spun his bed this way and that in an attempt to manoeuvre him through doorways, down corridors and into a lift. The dizziness came with a vengeance and he was retching even as a nurse helped him move from the A&E trolley into something that slightly more resembled a bed. He had spent the rest of the afternoon curled on his side as his stomach cramped and his head tried to cleave itself in half. A nurse came and gave him more anti-nausea medication and he fell asleep shortly after the untouched dinner tray was taken from the end of his bed. He woke a few hours later to a darkened ward, hushed voices passing by the doorway and the room lit only by the blue hue of machines.

He felt tired down to his very bones, more tired and weak than basic army training had ever made him feel. His stomach had slowed in its mission to consume itself and if he kept perfectly still his world didn’t spin away from itself when he blinked. A nurse quietly made her way to the bed and he pretended to be asleep as she removed the oxygen cannula and turned the heart monitor machine so the light cast by it wasn’t directly spilling across his pillow. It wasn’t long before the stillness of nighttime on a hospital ward lulled him back to sleep.

His last thought was of a man in the shadows watching him.

* * *

“Afternoon.” Ilsa said tightly from where she stood in the corridor and Robin looked at her questioningly.

Robin had tried calling Strike the night before but to no avail before realising that he didn’t have his phone with him at the hospital. Having left in such a hurry with the paramedics, Nick and Robin had both failed to grab anything of use. Ilsa had called her before bed to update her. Nick had chatted aimlessly about football with Cormoran to take his mind off things but not long after he began, Strike had fallen asleep. He had woken just as they were leaving and seemed a bit better, although still plagued with nausea.

Robin had spent the morning in the office looking through the nutter drawer and old case files from the time before she joined Strike. She was already on her way to the hospital to visit Strike after lunch when Ilsa sent her a text to say that she had spent a frustrating morning with him. Ilsa didn’t elaborate and Robin found herself hoping he hadn’t already made a run for it.

“Afternoon. Are you okay? Is Cormoran-“

“Oh Cormoran is in a great mood. Just fantastic.” Ilsa replied and Robin couldn’t help but smile at her sarcasm.

“Being a model patient then?” Robin joked.

“Just the best. Signed his release papers against doctor’s orders before they even had his breakfast ready.”

“What?” Robin said, her smile vanished. Ilsa just hummed an affirmative and led Robin into the ward. Strike’s bed was in the far corner and when Ilsa pulled back the curtain all hopes Robin had of finding Cormoran miraculously recovered disappeared. He was more grey than white, his hair disheveled and there was a cardboard bowl on his bed, empty thankfully, proving his symptoms the day before hadn’t quite abated. He was sitting on the side of his bed in a blue gown and a nurse was removing the IV from his arm. Cormoran looked around and glared at Ilsa upon seeing Robin.

“I’m still leaving.” He said, his voice sounding stronger at least.

“Hello to you too.” Robin said. She had brought him a cup of tea from the cafe across the road and now held it out as a peace offering. Strike just looked at it warily.

“Oh come on, it’s not from the canteen. I even left the tea bag in long enough.” She said, as if coaxing a toddler into eating dinner.

“Thanks.” He muttered, accepting the tea when the nurse stepped back and left with a frown thrown at Strike.

“So, are you sure-“ Robin’s voice was tentative and sure enough Strike glowered at her.

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, you always great me by puking into a bowl.” Ilsa muttered.

“Look, I’m not staying here. Not when someone out there is trying to kill me.” He said and a part of Robin’s heart mended itself at the fire in his voice and the anger on his face. This was the Strike she knew, the fighter not the victim.

“Alright.” Robin said.

“Alright?” Ilsa blurted out, her voice full of disbelief.

“It’s been over a day and a half-“

“Barely.” Ilsa countered.

“He’s not on a heart monitor anymore, or the oxygen, you said he was finished with the overdose medication and just on fluids, and they’ll have got the results back from all his tests by now. The doctor would be kicking up more of a stink if he was in any danger.”

Strike raised his chin and glanced at Robin with a look of affection and then quirked an eyebrow in Ilsa’s direction.

“ _But_ no traipsing across London. You let me and Wardle do all the investigating and you stay in your flat or the office, no arguments.” Robin said, a finger held up to Strike in warning before turning to Ilsa, “And Nick can meet us at the office. So at least he’ll have some sort of medical supervision for a few more hours and Nick will know if Cormoran has left the hospital too soon.” Robin felt a certain amount of guilt at placing the responsibility of Strike’s health on Nick but she knew Strike would only end up absconding from the hospital at some point anyway and she’d much rather he be with one of them than on his own. Ilsa sighed and then rolled her eyes.

“I want it noted that I object to this.” Ilsa said, before muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Idiots, the pair of you.’

“Throw us my leg.” Strike said to Robin as he placed a steadying hand on the bed and reached under it to retrieve the plastic bag with his possessions in it. Robin grabbed his prosthetic from where it was leaning against the wall across from his bed. Robin and Ilsa both averted their eyes as he got dressed but a sudden curse had them turning. Strike was in his half opened shirt and boxers, his trousers beside him on the bed and his prosthetic leg held in one hand and a boot in the other.

“Who the fuck takes a shoe off a prosthetic leg. Fucking idiots.” He blurted out.

Ilsa snorted and Robin couldn’t help but laugh at her.

“I’m glad I’m providing entertainment.” He muttered.

“Oh you’re a right moody sod today.” Ilsa said as she walked over and took the boot from him.

“Come on.” She said, unlacing the boot further and stretching out the ankle of it. She held it in place on the bed as Strike gripped his prosthetic near the top and wiggled it this way and that until it slipped into his boot. Robin smiled fondly when Ilsa laid a hand briefly on Strike’s shoulder and kissed his forehead, knowingly annoying him.

Strike pulled his leg and trousers on and then stood causing Robin to reach out quickly as he swayed slightly, earning an exasperated sigh and eye-roll from Ilsa. He straightened and muttered a thanks before grabbing his tea from the cabinet by the bed and a half empty bottle of water.

“Why have you got them?” Strike asked as Robin grabbed the shiny new crutches leaning against the head of the bed. They had been given to him by a nurse during the night so he could get about when his prosthetic was off.

“Might as well take them, your ones are all scratched and dinged.” She said simply and he gave her a slightly wary smile. One of the many stark differences between Robin and Charlotte was how Robin approached everything with a sense of ease, no problem was so complicated that they couldn’t solve it, whether it was something as practical as replacing his old crutches or something as serious as a serial killer sending them a severed leg. There were never hysterics and ashtrays flying through the room, just a quickly formed plan and the resolve to push on.

They waited for a prescription from his doctor and then made their way to the car park, Strike unaware of the drug addiction pamphlets that Robin intercepted. His walk was more of a shuffle as they neared the car, his energy obviously waining and as he got paler Robin regretted not grabbing the cardboard bowl on his bed. The tea had been discarded in a bin by the hospital door and Robin noticed his hands shaking as he got into the back seat, clearly not wanting any company judging from the look he gave her.

“Lovely day for a drive to Cornwall.” Ilsa teased as they pulled out of the carpark, a charged silence hovering in the car. Strike just glared and then rested his head back and shut his eyes while Robin sent a text to Nick and replied to an email from Wardle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to add earlier that I am not a medical expert so that side of things is all just courtesy of doctor Google. (You guys should see the stuff I've googled for this thing. Fairly sure my FBI/MI5 agent is convinced I'm either a heroin user or am playing to murder someone by poisoning. Even had to google 'would a doctor call the police if I show up to A&E with a heroin overdose' 😂😂)


	9. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW are we on chapter NINE already??? *laughs nervously cause the last chapter decided to extend itself without my permission and I'm still writing it* This will now be a 14 chapter fic 😬

Chapter 9

**(I think I made you up inside my head.)**

“He’s gone.” Wardle said as he strode into the office.

Strike was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette and sipping on a can of Diet Coke with Nick hovering nearby while Ilsa pulled food cartons from brown paper takeaway bags. They had ordered food for an early dinner as Wardle was meeting them at the office for an update and Strike had refused to lie down, much to Nick’s annoyance. He’d gone up to his flat when they’d arrived back from the hospital to change and then returned downstairs, insisting he was fine.

“Ab?” Robin replied and Wardle nodded.

“What do you mean gone?” Strike asked.

“No trace of him or anyone else.” Wardle said as he walked over to the office kitchenette and Ilsa handed him a tray of Chicken Korma with rice pilled on top.

“You went to the right place?” Strike asked. His voice was full of irritation, as if Wardle was a rookie who had made a stupid mistake, but it was a defensive ploy. His hallucination of Robin was still unsettling him, no matter how much the doctor had explained to him that it was most likely a consequence of the sedatives used on him. A feeling of dread filled him at the thought of Wardle telling him he had hallucinated every meeting with Ab.

“No I went to The Oval. Of course I went to the right place you idiot. An illustrator next door said he cleared out around lunch time yesterday.” Wardle explained.

“So he ran because he’s expecting a murder charge-“ Nick began as he threw his empty food tray in the bin.

“Or he knows Corm is alive and is expecting an attempted murder charge.” Ilsa finished his thought.

“The guy next door said Ab, or Teddy as he called him, had only moved in a month ago.” Wardle revealed and raised his eyebrows, reflecting everyone else’s reaction.

“Teddy?” Robin asked.

“Yep. I got a picture of him from the CCTV across the street from the studio. This him?” Wardle asked as he showed Strike an image on his phone.

“Yeah.” He confirmed and Wardle let out a sigh and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

“What?” Robin asked, eyeing his slumped shoulders.

”That’s not Eric White.” He explained.

“So he’s using a fake name.”Ilsa surmised.

“Which leads us to a dead end in getting his ID.”

“Why Teddy?” Nick wondered.

“Do you remember any more about what happened?” Wardle asked Strike.

“No.” That wasn’t strictly true, but what he did remember wouldn’t help their investigation. It had all come rushing back to him early this morning when he’d woken in a cold sweat. His mind, always one to rush forward with an offering to provoke stormy clouds, had blurred everything except those terrifying moments when the heroin had kicked in.

_It happened slowly enough that he knew what was coming and quick enough that he could do nothing in response. An awareness of being monumentally screwed settled on him and then the edges of his vision blurred. No part of his body felt his own, as if someone else had taken control. In a matter of seconds he collapsed painfully to the floor. Shadows and shapes filled his vision as the room had morphed into a house of horrors. A dark figure lurked in the corner and then Jack ran past him, his stomach one gaping big hole with blood pouring out. He turned his head away and then Anstis was beside him, his face smouldering and melting away as something skittered past and then Lucy was watching, crying out for him to do something as a boy was whipped behind Robin’s desk. The dark figure from the corner loomed closer and slowly revealed itself to be Whittaker, inching closer until Strike could smell his stale breath and feel his greasy hair brush his face. Then he was gone and Cormoran wanted to scream; Leda was suspended above him, pale and still and lips blue and dead, and he had no escape. Her body was curled as though asleep but her eyes were black and accusing. She slowly lowered from the ceiling and he thought he saw her lips move. A cry caught in his throat and fire spread through his chest as electric currents ran down his arms and legs. Panic filled every corner of his mind and with the last vestiges of his strength he managed to turn away from her and onto his stomach. Terror inched its way up his spine as Leda’s long hair slowly appeared in his periphery, either side of his head, and he screamed and begged for everything to go away, but the words never left his mouth._

_He vaguely remembered hearing voices, they were familiar but dull and sounded as though there was an ocean between them. He was alone with his own horrors and then not, heart racing and then not. A piercing white light filled his vision as two dark shapes floated in and out. Everything was too loud and too sharp. His vision cleared and then clouded again in pulsing beats. He felt a cold sweat break out and his lungs began to grind to a half. Everything had stilled and then crystal clear eyes came into focus._

“Cormoran?” Robin said.

“Hm?” Strike replied, his head shooting up from where he had been staring at the floor. Wardle was standing just where he’d fallen, where Robin and Nick had found him.

“Oggy?” Nick said quietly from where he was sitting beside him. _When did Nick sit down?_

“Do you remember something?” Wardle asked. Strike looked across to see Ilsa looking at him worriedly.

“No.” He repeated, adding “Nothing of any use.” He didn’t see the look that passed between Ilsa and Nick.

“Do you remember Ab being here?” Robin asked.

“Someone was here, but it’s all a blur. I can’t be sure who it was. I don’t remember their face.” Strike replied, hearing how flat and dull his voice sounded.

“Well you left the pub with him. Staff remember you being there, talking for a bit, ordering two coffees and then staggering out with him behind you.”

“Didn’t any of them notice he’d been drugged? Why didn’t they do anything” Ilsa asked.

“A guy looking like he’s had one too many leaving a pub isn’t usually cause for alarm. They each probably just assumed he’d started ordering drinks from one of the others.” Wardle countered.

“Suicide Tuesday.” Strike said suddenly with a shake of his head and Wardle scoffed. At Robin’s furrowed brows Wardle elaborated.

“You spend the weekend getting high, then Tuesday rolls around and you fall into a depressive state and top yourself.”

“Right.” Robin replied carefully, watching Strike as he stared at a patch on the wall.

“More myth than truth now. Most people don’t limit their drug use to the weekend.” Wardle added.

“If they wanted it to look like a suicide why didn’t they inject you with a higher dosage then? Make sure they got the job done.” Robin asked, specifically trying to catch Strike’s attention.

“If they wanted it to look like a suicide then okay, but they couldn’t be sure someone like us wouldn’t argue against that conclusion.” Nick said.

“So they wanted him to survive? They wanted it to be just an overdose?” Ilsa asked.

“If they knew how mum died... like mother, like son. Maybe they thought people wouldn’t ask any questions.” Strike said quietly.

“Well then they obviously don’t know enough about you.” Robin said, earning a hum of agreement from Wardle as he looked at each of them.

Robin had walked around her desk to face Strike and he frowned at how the light from the window framed her face. She looked like a figure from a dream, the solution to every dark thought in his mind.

“Why don’t you go lie down mate?” Nick said, his hand resting briefly on Strike’s knee. The food Ilsa had placed in his lap had cooled and turned his stomach just to look at. He felt claustrophobic as everyone’s eyes rested on him.

“No, I’m fine.” Strike replied before turning to Wardle, “What about…” His thoughts failed him and he reached blindly for some lead, “Did you talk to the neighbour?” He asked.

“At the studio?” Wardle glanced at Nick with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, I just told-“

“No, about seeing me. I remember each time I went there to meet him but not how I got home. There’s always a gap between us talking and me arriving home. I’m sitting there listening to him drone on and then suddenly I’m standing at the front door downstairs staring at my keys on the ground or being woken by a woman on the tube,” Strike glanced at Robin, the thought of her vanishing into thin air unsettling him again, “other times it’s like I just wake up the next morning and I’m not even sure if I’ve met him. What if he has another place nearby? Maybe he took me somewhere else.” Why he would, Strike didn’t know but as his mind struggled to open locked doors he had a vague sense that something else, something more was just beyond his reach.

“Vanessa is looking into the name Eric White. Maybe Ab didn’t just pluck the name out of thin air and we’ll find a connection.” Wardle said, knowing how tenuous the proposition sounded. Truthfully, they didn’t have many leads. Forensics had found nothing of use in either Strike’s flat or the office. His notes told them more than enough about Ab’s paranoid hypothesis but nothing about why he’d want to kill Strike. CCTV had given them his image and showed he really did rent the studio but he soon disappeared into the London crowds and or walked down blind alleys when they tried to track him. The studio itself had been rented under the name Eric White and the owner had accepted cash and no ID.

Wardle watched Strike, unsettled by the confusion on his face. He was usually faced with a Strike full of bravado, frustration, stubbornness, determination and a smug smile when he was one step ahead of the Met. Wardle had spent the morning commute reading through gossips columns and fan site entries about Leda Strike and Jonny Rokeby. He already knew enough about Whittaker and coupled with this new information he began to wonder if Ab was connected to Strike’s chaotic background somehow. But with a memory like Strike’s surely he would have recognised him from the very first meeting?

“Oggy?” Nick asked and Strike huffed in annoyance knowing where Nick was heading.

“I don’t need to go and lie down.” He said slowly and forcefully.

“Corm-“

“Ilsa.” He challenged, staring at her knowing it was useless. He hadn’t been able to intimidate Ilsa when they were children and he certainly couldn’t now.

“Strike, maybe you should-“ Wardle stopped as Strike suddenly lurched upwards and stepped ungainly forward. His head began to feel like it was buzzing and he locked his knees and tensed his legs as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He stilled and stared at Robin’s desk as small white dots began to float through his vision, recognising the feeling from the first few times he had gotten out of bed after losing his leg. He waited the second or so it took to find out whether he needed to sit down quickly or if he could push on.

“Cormoran?” Robin said, a hand reaching for his arm but he moved on and headed for his office.

“I’m-

“fine. Yeah, sure. But maybe a little rest wouldn’t hurt.” She said, forcefully gripping his elbow. He was half turned away from her and as a wave of exhaustion washed over him he looked back.

“If this was me, there’s no way you’d have let me leave the hospital. I did you a favour earlier by taking your side but it has conditions attached. One is that you rest when I tell you to.” Strike raised an eyebrow as she gutted her chin out and stared him down.

“It’s usually not a good idea to make your partner angry.” Wardle teased, his eyes full of something.

Strike lowered his head slightly in defeat and rubbed his forehead. He turned and sighed, as much of an agreement that he should rest as Robin was going to get from him.

* * *

The attic flat was grey and cold looking as the winter sun hid behind stormy clouds. Strike walked over and sat on the bed, feeling winded after just climbing the stairs, while Robin, who had picked up his coat on the way out of the office in some vague hope that this was him turning in for the night, hung it on the hook by the door. Forensics had left everything more or less in the same place, Strike noticed as he looked around. A shirt was hanging from the rope that wound its way around the flat, acting as a useful support system when he had his prosthetic off. Various tubes and bottles were stored in a neat pile on the top of his chest of drawers and the part of himself that fiercely valued privacy cringed as they had obviously been examined. He imagined an anonymous member of the forensics unit sniffing his aftershave and the various creams he used for his leg, reading the labels on his medication and dipping test strips into his milk and orange juice.

“Tea?” Robin’s bright voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Sure.”

She turned, clicked the kettle on and began rummaging in the fridge. Robin pulled a plastic takeaway carton from the top shelf, smelt it and then threw it in the bin, all without a word. She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and Cormoran found himself smiling as he watched her. How easy it would be for this to be his life, them both sharing the same space, her things and his scattered together, each having a side of the bed and a section of the wardrobe. It felt like a betrayal every time he thought about the rest of it, the sex and the dates, the moments first thing in the morning and last thing at night. The way her skin would feel pressed against his. As he watched her he realised just how easy it could be, and also how hard.

“You need to buy milk.” She said as she poured some into hers and waited for his to brew before pouring just a drop.

“I’ll put it on the list.”

“You have a shopping list?” She asked, eyebrow raised as she finished making his tea.

“Not a physical one.” He replied, tapping his head before rubbing a hand through his hair.

“Need a haircut as well.” She said as she took a sip of her tea. His hair was slightly longer than usual and Robin had noticed how it curled into various odd angles while it dried when he came to work in the mornings with it still wet.

“Mm.” He agreed, watching as she looked away almost shyly.

He wanted to shower, wash away that unique ability of a hospital stay to leave one feeling both disinfected and dirty, but he didn’t have the energy, even if all he had to do was sit on his trusty white stool and let the water run over him. Even the tea was conjuring up the memory of nausea and he took a tentative sip before placing it on the floor by the bed. He looked up and realised that Robin was awkwardly hovering, the arm chair being on the other side of the attic was not particularly pertinent to socialising and would leave each of them on opposite ends of the room. Just as she turned back to reach for the chair he kept by the tiny kitchen table he grabbed the support beam in front of his bed, hauled himself up and moved down the bed so she could sit at the head. They both smiled at each other, almost bashful Strike realised with a wince.

The bed dipped where she sat and a charged silence settled. She looked down at his tea.

“Did you want something else? You didn’t eat any lunch, I can make you something if-“

“Robin.” He stopped her, almost reaching a hand out to grip her arm, “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

“Cormoran Blue Strike not hungry? God, that’s like the fifth horseman of the apocalypse.” She teased.

“Good thing I can’t ride a horse then. Probably be classed as animal cruelty to put me up on one.” He replied, feeling a warmth in his chest as he watched her laugh.

“Really though, you should eat something.”

“Nah, I had stomach cramps all night. It still feels a little temperamental. I used to have a steel stomach, ask Nick. Then I got blind drunk in a caravan in Wales and ruined it.”

“Lovely.” She said, her Yorkshire accent coming out. She watched as Strike pulled the plaster from his arm where his IV had been. There was a slight blue bruise and Robin saw him frown.

“What?” She asked but he ignored her and instead pulled up the shirt sleeve of his other arm. There, on the inside of his elbow towards the left side was a darkening purple bruise and a red puncture mark. He quickly pulled his sleeve down and then looked away, avoiding her gaze.

  
“Cormoran.” Robin said quietly, not knowing what more to say. He blew out a breath and then looked in her direction, his eyes landing on her knees.

“I thought I was...” He lifted a hand towards his head and his voice trailed off, Robin watched him swallow and clench his jaw. He looked away again but she caught a glimpse of his eyes, red rimmed and lost.

“I know.” Robin said simply and reached over to grab his hand. It was warm and rough and when she squeezed it he squeezed back.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Robin said, her words whispering through the attic flat. She felt her own heart clench as he looked down and took a steadying breath and then with one final rub of his thumb across her knuckles he pulled away.

He stood and pulled his cigarettes from the inside pocket of his coat where it hung by the door. Strike sat back down and reached across her to open the top drawer of his bedside cabinet looking for some matches. Robin avoided looking in the open drawer, acutely aware of the fact that she was sitting on his bed and the image of Lorelei and Ciara Porter and others trundled through her mind. He shut the drawer, matches found, and pulled the cardboard lid back on his cigarettes. Strike froze. There was a piece of paper rolled up inside. Robin had spotted it too.

“Did you put that in there?” She asked, her voice full of the electricity that usually came when they had found an important clue.

“No.” He said quietly.

Strike unrolled the paper, a generic white lined sheet obviously torn from a small spiral bound notebook, and abandoned his cigarettes on the bed. It read:

**“there lurks a girl Quite listless in the sun**

**The villagers call her rotten to the core**

**One body of life one body of death**

**plies her trade Within a mile of Your grave**

**A harvester of life of death**

**when you've gone each day as if by schedule**

**strong and tall**

**I'll prepare your ripe and ready grave**

**Your body choked to death**

**knees that jerk**

**The reduction of the many from the one**

**gasp or pray planning's almost done”**

“Oh my god.” Robin said, reaching out to pull his hand holding the paper closer to her. Below the poem was a small pentagram, its lines bleeding together where the ink had smudged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS! I had to figure out a poem for this fic, was I trying to kill myself??? 😂😂 It took me so long to piece that thing together good looooord 😂 
> 
> So the plot thickens..... I didn't even start out meaning for this thing to be full of pining but here we are ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> p.s. that bit about Strike coming to work with his hair still wet in the mornings is soooo not inspired by Tom's wet Rosmersholm hair. Not at all.


	10. God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter one today, but that's the way the chapters crumble.

**Chapter 10**

**God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:**

“This feels personal. If someone had a grudge against Strike and wanted him dead then why not just do it? Hell, push him in front of a tube, whatever, but this? This was slow, measured, they stayed all night…” Wardle frowned in confusion.

“He’s a big enough target.” Nick said quietly, echoing Strike’s words during the Shacklewell Ripper case.

“They knew about his family history.” Ilsa said.

“That’s not hard, a quick google will tell you enough.” Wardle said.

“But why go to such lengths if it wasn’t personal? And why use the drug his mum overdosed with if there wasn’t some significance?” Ilsa asked.

“You heard Strike, to make it look like history repeating itself so people wouldn’t ask questions. Her death was ruled as a suicide. If you didn’t know Strike and just trusted what a newspaper headline told you-” Wardle responded.

“He was pretty vocal in court about it being Whittaker. You’ll find a story about it online if you look hard enough.” Nick said, reminded of the day the verdict was handed down and how broken and angry Strike had been.

“Fucking Whittaker.” Wardle sighed echoing Nick’s thoughts and remembering the game of hide and seek the Met had played trying to find him when Robin was sent a severed leg.

It was then that Robin burst through the office door, an ashen faced Strike behind her. She went straight for Wardle and handed him the piece of paper.

“Look!” She said and watched as Wardle began to read, his brow furrowing the further he got.

“A fucking pentagram?” He shouted, looking at Strike with a face of disbelief.

“What?” Nick and Ilsa both exclaimed and rushed over to read the note.

“Tell me you haven’t pissed off a Satanic cult you absolute twat.” Wardle said to Strike.

“No.” He replied but there was no fire in his defence and Robin looked closely at Strike. He looked shaken, more so than he should be and she walked over to him.

“Cormoran, are you okay?” She asked, a hand on his arm.

“Yeah. Just wasn’t expecting to find that in a pack of Benson and Hedges.” He smiled but something at the back of her mind nagged at her.

“What, this was in your pack of fags?” Wardle asked.

“Yes. The ones in my coat pocket, the ones that came with me to the hospital when Robin grabbed my coat before following the ambulance.” Strike purposefully explained.

“So only you would find it. Or us if you’d have died.” Wardle finished Strike’s thought.

“Does this mean anything to you? Did Ab talk about Satanic shit?” Wardle asked, his eyes again reading through the poem.

“No, he didn’t and-“

“The villagers call her rotten to the core, that’s wrong…” Robin interrupted.

“Wrong?” Ilsa asked.

“It sounds familiar but I can’t place it.”

“The villagers call her quicklime girl.” Strike supplied. Nick’s head shot up and he stepped forward. Wardle furrowed his brows, the connection coming slower than Robin whose mouth had dropped open.

“The poem is made up of ‘Mistress of the Salmon Salt’ lyrics.”

“Leda.” Ilsa said quietly, almost to herself.

“Fucking Whittaker.” Wardle repeated his earlier statement, shaking his head and pulling out his phone to take a picture of the piece of paper. He sent it to Vanessa with a quick request to start running a search for Whittaker.

“Why now? Why after all these years would he do this? Decide to risk prison by killing you?”” Nick asked, turning to his friend.

“He waited for some reason?” Ilsa theorised.

“Oggy?” Nick asked a still silent Cormoran.

“I dunno.” He replied, looking away again and frowning.

“So Whittaker had Ab do it? Why?” Nick asked.

“Maybe Ab owed Whittaker something? A drug debt or something and Whittaker decided this was how he could pay him back?” Robin suggested.

“I don’t know.” Ilsa said, not quite believing in Robin’s proposal.

All four fell silent, each at a dead end in their theories and without enough evidence to move forward.

“You don’t have any theories?” Wardle asked, looking Strike up and down.

“No.” He responded quickly. Wardle kept him pinned with his gaze and then looked around at the rest of them.

“I’m gonna head back and see what Vanessa has.” He said.

“Wardle-“ Robin began.

“I’ll call you if I find anything.” He replied. Wardle stopped in front of Strike before leaving.

“I can get a unit stationed outside if you-“

Strike dismissed him with a shake of his head.

“We still don’t know where Ab is, what if he comes back?” Robin argued.

“I’ll be ready for him.” Strike answered, his chin dipped and a dark look in his eyes.

Wardle left, taking the piece of paper with him in the hopes of finding useful fingerprints, and after further arguments from Nick and Ilsa about Strike’s health and whether he needed the police protection Wardle had offered, they left. Ilsa needed to catch up with a friend who was currently covering for her at work and Nick needed to sleep in preparation for his night shift. After they left Strike disappeared into his office and Robin followed after a few minutes.

“I think you can take a day or two off for medical reasons.” She said quietly from the doorway.

“Forgot to get a doctor’s note. Boss is a right bastard when it comes to that kind of thing.” He said.

“Cormoran-“

“I’ll go lie down soon, I just need to check something. Can you grab my cigarettes? I left them upstairs.” He asked, seeing the lecture that was about to begin and stopping her before it started. Robin sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Sure.” She said.

He waited until he heard the office door click shut before dialling Shanker’s number.

“Aw’right Bunsen?” Shanker sounded happy and Strike almost regretted what he was about to ask him to do.

“Not particularly. I need your help.” Strike said.

“Well I’ll ‘ave to inform you that my rates ‘ave gone up. Preparation for Brexit and all ‘at.” Shanker said with a little laugh at the end, amused by the prospect of extracting more money from his friend.

“It involves Whittaker.” Strike explained and he imagined the smile dropping from Shanker’s face. There was a pause, no doubt filled in Shanker’s mind by curses and insults aimed at the man responsible for Leda’s death.

“Can you come to mine?” Strike asked.

“Gimme an hour or two an’ I’ll be ‘round.” Shanker responded and hung up.

Strike sat back into his office chair, his muscles tense and aching and his headache ratcheting up. His mind began to whirl, some force pulling at all of the relevant evidence and indicators, dismissing and approving, placing it all in a neat line for him. The storm bound for London had breached the city and rain had begun to lash the window. He heard Robin above, pulling his door shut and beginning her descent.

Eric White.

_One body of life one body of death._

A pentagram.

_“Tell me you haven’t pissed off a Satanic cult…”_

_The villagers call her rotten to the core_

_“…or Teddy as he called him…”_

_The reduction of the many from the one._

“Here you go.” Robin’s voice roused him from his thoughts. The pack landed with a hollow smack on his desk followed by the rattle of the box of matches. Cormoran smiled a thanks and Robin disappeared back to her own desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks for reading/commenting/kudos. 😀


	11. Exit seraphim and Satan's men:

**Chapter 11**

**Exit seraphim and Satan's men:**

Robin stretched and felt her back and shoulders pop. She was nearly half way through the emails she needed to respond to when the office door opened and Shanker breezed in, soaked and carrying a plastic bag hidden partially behind his back.

“Alright Robin, Bunsen in here?” Shanker asked.

“Yeah, he’s inside. What are you doing here?”

“I called him.” Strike said as he appeared, limping slightly and looking between Robin and Shanker with an air of tension.

“Bunsen.” Shanker said and Robin could tell that he didn’t know what had happened. He was looking Strike up and down and furrowed his brows, looking questioningly at his friend.

“Are you alright here if we…” Strike said, glancing pointedly at the ceiling and looking back at Shanker. Robin looked between the two of them and felt alarm bells go off in her head.

“Why is Shanker here?” She asked.

“Robin.” Strike sighed.

“Cormoran.” She countered and saw confusion grow on Shanker’s face. Strike stepped closer to her and looked away, a million thoughts running across his face before he looked back at her with deep and soulful eyes.

“Why is Shanker here?” She repeated.

Cormoran looked at her, at one of the few people in his life he trusted completely, and he lied.

“I just want to talk to him. That’s all.” He said softly, knowing how to sound troubled and how to manipulate. He saw the thoughts float through her mind, almost imagined he could see Leda’s dead body too. He felt a hundred lashes on his back for betraying her trust, but he knew he had to do this. He had to keep Robin safe. Always. She looked between them and then her eyes softened slightly, although Strike still saw a raw note of suspicion.

* * *

“That bastard, I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘im.” Shanker exploded, wanting to hurl something through the room but at the last second thinking better of it.

“Shanker-“ Strike said as he massaged his temples in an attempt to soothe his aching head.

“I’ll wring his skinny fuckin’ jaundiced neck.” He continued, pacing through the little space of Strike’s flat.

“I don’t think it was him.” Strike said and Shanker came to a sudden stop.

“What?” He asked, his brows furrowed.

“I don’t think it was Whittaker. It doesn’t feel like him, it’s more than just song lyrics. The pentagram-“

“He used to draw them all over the bloody walls.” Shanker argued.

“Yes, alright, but the pentagram is also the symbol of the Church of Satan-“

“Whittaker!”

“Will you shut up and let me explain.” Strike shouted. Shanker took a seat and scowled at him, grabbing a can from the plastic bag he’d brought and opening it.

“There was a poem left for me to find, it’s made up of Mistress of the Salmon Salt lyrics,” Strike glared at Shanker as he stood poised to interrupt again, “but the lyrics are all jumbled up. It talks about a girl who the villagers call rotten to the core. There’s sexual imagery and reference to an overdose.”

“Your mum?” Shanker asked, wincing as he said it.

“There’s an image of two bodies, one of life and one of death.” Strike continued.

“Well if your mum’s the dead one, who’s the other one?” Shanker asked.

“The kid she had with Whittaker.”

“What?”

“‘A harvester of life and of death’, that’s new life and new death with mum as the creator of both. She created Switch and if he believes what the courts said then she was behind her own death too.”

Shanker squinted and sat back further in his chair.

“Switch was only two when mum died.” Strike continued.

“Bunsen-“

“‘Plies her trade’, Switch was brought up by Whittaker’s grandparents, they always said that mum was a slut, that she was the one that dragged Whittaker down.”

“I dunno mate.” Shanker shook his head.

“He’d have grown up hearing that.” Strike said, desperation slowly creeping into his voice. Shanker just sighed and looked away.

“It’s a threat. The first part of it was about mum but the rest of it? The overdose in it isn’t mum’s, it was supposed to be mine. ‘I’ll prepare your grave’, ‘the planning’s almost done’,-“

“Why would he wanna kill ya?” Shanker asked.

“I don’t know. But the pentagram? It’s the symbol of the Church of Satan, founded by Anton LaVey. LaVey, Shanker?”

“Alrigh’, alrigh’, I remember his name. That doesn’t prove nothin’ though. Could just as easy be Whittaker.” He warned.

“He had an accomplice called Eric White. Eric. I was nearly called Eric Bloom Strike because mum loved Blue Oyster Cult and Switch ended up with Bloom in his name. And White? Whitechapel Cemetery where mum is buried, the poem even references a grave. And a neighbour knew the accomplice as Teddy, like uncle Ted. Remember the massive fight with Whittaker over uncle Ted being Switch’s godfather? They’re all clues, it all fits together.”

“Yeah, maybe in your head.” Shanker muttered and Strike’s straightened where he sat.

“I called you because I thought you’d fucking understand.”

“Bunsen mate I do, but why would ‘e wanna kill you, ‘ey?”

“Maybe he blames me. I let his mum die.”

Shanker and Strike locked eyes. Strike knew that Shanker carried just as much guilt as he did about Leda’s death.

“His fucking father killed his mum, he should start with him.” Shanker spat.

“This isn’t Whittaker. Whittaker gets his hands dirty.” Strike said, calling to mind the list of charges the one time gravediggerhad faced in his life, including murder, drug possession, assault and keeping a dead girlfriend’s body in his flat for a month after she died.

“Using an accomplice, not leaving any trace of a connection between the two of them, all the subtle hints, the poem-“ Strike continued.

“Well we know ‘e wrote song lyrics.” Shanker countered.

“It’s not him, Shanker. This doesn’t feel like him. At least, he’s not the one who orchestrated it. He might have known, I dunno if they talk but…” Strike was on the verge of begging. He knew it, something in his gut was screaming at him that it was Switch, and if Shanker didn’t want to help him then he would go it alone but he needed him to believe him.

“You really think the boy is involved?”

“Yes.”

Shanker sighed and took a long gulp from his can.

“Suppose it’s about time for a family reunion then.” He said, a slight gleam in his eye as he looked at Strike. A thanks passed unspoken from Strike to Shanker, the years between them having given way to a deep understanding long ago.

* * *

“I’m charging you extra for ‘aving to listen to this.” Shanker said, scowling as he stood outside Strike’s tiny bathroom. They had just finished discussing their plan when Strike had bolted from his seat and promptly threw up the minute he made it to the toilet.

“Mates rates?” Strike said through the door sounding out of breath.

“That offer expires when bodily fluids become involved.” Shanker replied. Strike pulled the door open and had an eyebrow raised.

“What? The bodily fluids rule applies to my female companions as well-“

“Alright! Christ, you trying to make me throw up again?” Strike complained as he gingerly made his way over to the kitchen sink and got a glass of water.

“Not that I ain’t grateful for you keeping the bacon out of this but why aren’t you telling your mate Wardle.” Shanker said as he put the remaining cans back in his plastic bag. Cormoran had started to drink one but then in deference to the time of day and the fact that one sip hit him like a full pint he passed it to Shanker to finish.

“Well if I’m wrong I don’t want my first meeting with Switch in twenty five years to be me having him arrested for attempted murder.” Strike said, a brief wave of lightheadedness washing over him.

“‘If I’m wrong?’, bloody ‘ell Bunsen I thought-”

“Relax. I’m joking. Wardle is looking for Whittaker. We’re just following another lead. And I… I dunno, I need to try and understand first before getting Wardle involved.”

It wasn’t something he gave much thought to anymore; the knowledge that another was walking around out there with shared blood and history and yet they had no connection. Switch could have a wife and kid by now for all Strike knew, could have passed him in the street or stepped in front of him getting onto the tube. If he was honest with himself Switch had always been a shadow in his periphery where the Rokeby clan didn’t even factor. He put it down to the fact that Leda was their connection. For every bit of energy he consumed despising Jonny Rokeby he consumed a thousand more in his love for Leda.

“You sure you’re alrigh’ Bunsen?” Shanker asked, interrupting Strike from his thoughts.

“Fine.” He said unconvincingly.

“What about your Robin? ‘ave you told her?” Shanker asked.

Strike wanted nothing more than to tell Robin and hear her thoughts. She was removed from his history and she would see things he couldn’t. He also knew that he owed it to her to be honest, but that would inevitably lead her down the darker paths of his history. Every now and then, in the darkest depths of particularly bad nights he would acknowledge that some day in the future he would need to tell someone. Not Charlotte nor Nick knew the worst of it and on the nights he sat drinking with Shanker at Leda’s grave he would be reminded that even Shanker knew only whispers of the time before he had started living with them.

“Not yet.” Strike said and Shanker just sighed and shook his head.

“Alrigh’, but I’m not lying to her if she asks me.” Shanker warned and Strike smiled slightly. Shanker’s loyalty and affection for Robin reminded him of the way he had been with Leda. For all the times Strike cursed Shanker for fleecing him or stealing something from the office or flat, there were more times when he was immensely grateful that he could call him at any time and for any reason.

They made their way downstairs and stopped on the landing outside the office.

“Righ’, well I’ll give some of the boys a call and get started then.” Shanker said quietly.

“I appreciate it.” Strike said and then returned to the office as Shanker descended the stairs.

Robin was sitting behind her desk and didn’t look up when Strike entered. There was a cup of tea in front of her and she had pulled a jumper on.

“Do you want the heater?” He asked, pointing towards his office. Robin had arrived back from lunch one day at the end of summer with a plug-in heater, having seen a sale sign in Argos.

“No.” Her response was sharp and he knew from her slightly arched brow that she was mad at him. He also knew she had every right to be.

“Robin, look-“ He stopped as she huffed a laugh. His throbbing headache deepened to add insult to injury.

“What?” He asked.

“‘What?’, you’re a bastard sometimes you know that?” She said and Strike was taken aback at her tone.

“If this was me, if I’d nearly been killed, if I’d overdosed on heroin _yesterday_ , left hospital against doctor’s order _this morning,_ you would have locked me in a room, and you certainly wouldn’t be letting me organise god knows what kind of plan with Shanker.” She said, her voice raised and the Yorkshire lilt doing nothing to comfort Strike this time.

“You took my side in the hospital.” He muttered knowing he was just courting further anger.

“Yes, because I knew that whether I did or not, you’d have left anyway. You’d have disappeared the second we turned out backs.”

“Robin-“

“Someone tried to kill you! They would have if Nick and I hadn’t showed up when we did. You do not get to hide things from me. Not when you could end up dead. Not when I could be the one that finds your body.” Her voice broke on the last word and her face seemed to crumple.

Strike found his gaze settling on the floor as a wave of shame seemed to crash into him. _You don’t lie to your partner_ , he reminded himself. Not in the army and not in real life.

“I know you’re up to something, I can see it written on your face and I know it’s more than just asking Shanker to find Whittaker.” She said and Strike felt pinned beneath her gaze.

He sighed and walked over to the couch, dropping into it tiredly.

“Just let me in. Please?” And that’s what undoes him. _How easy it is_ , he thought. With the same face that once asked him what he wanted from her, Robin could take absolutely anything from him.

“I’m sorry.” He said, looking at her. “It’s not because I don’t want to…” He looked away at a loss for how to phrase what he wanted to say. Robin sat on the edge of her desk and waited, watching him closely.

“If you were hurt because of me, because you were protecting me… if anything happened to you I’d…” _never get over it. Never want to._ Cormoran held her gaze and hoped that she wouldn’t make him say it.

“We’re on the same page then.” Robin said as she sat on the corner of her desk. Strike sighed and felt some of the tension drain away as he rested his head back on the couch.

Robin walked back around her desk and pulled a bag from underneath. She came to sit beside him and dropped the bag into his lap.

“I popped out while you and Shanker were upstairs. It was probably a bit hopeful that you’d be able to stomach a takeaway and anyway Nick took the leftovers. So I got you this.”

He looked inside and saw a chicken sandwich, a Mars bar, a bag of cheese and onion crisps and a can of Coke.

“Meal deal.” She explained simply.

He nodded before digging further into the bag and finding boxes of Alka Seltzer and Motilium and another with flowers on the box. He pulled this one out and looked questioningly at Robin.

“It’s an antihistamine and I know you don’t have hay fever,” Robin said as Strike started to protest, “but the woman in Boots said it helps with dizziness too.” She smiled self-consciously as Strike looked at her sideways and then slowly grinned with a hint of suspicion.

“And I didn’t get any paracetamol because, well…” Robin smiled self-consciously. Strike had a rolling prescription for stronger painkillers so there was always some heavy duty ones around, and Robin kept a box of paracetamol in the first aid kit and in her top desk drawer.

“I don’t deserve you.” He said, noticing her shift under his gaze.

“Yes you do.” She replied simply, “and now you’re going to tell me everything.”

Strike took a Motilium tablet and then slowly chewed on the sandwich and sipped on the Coke as he told Robin his suspicions. He began reluctantly with the history lesson he knew she needed to hear but he revealed nothing more than she needed to know. He supposed she could probably find out most of what he was telling her from Leda and Whittaker’s wikipedia pages or old gossip columns that had dragged up his past while he was with Charlotte, but it seemed to ease the ache in his head to voice his thoughts. He paused often and glossed over much but Robin let him talk without interruption and waited silently when he faltered. He waited to see shock or pity in her eyes but instead she just held his gaze, a warmth and comfort in her presence that made him feel… home. _Sappy twat_ , Wardle’s voice uttered in his head.

“When’s the last time you saw Switch?” She asked as Strike lit a cigarette.

“The night before mum’s funeral. He’d been there when mum died so social services took him, Whittaker had fucked off like the coward he is and left his screaming kid behind and the police wouldn’t leave him with Shanker.”

“Understandable.” Robin joked.

“When Uncle Ted arrived up from Cornwall he went to some child services office in Peckham and three different forms of ID and a thousand pieces of paper later they finally handed him back. Then Whittaker’s grandparents showed up. Aunt Joan argued that she and Ted could take him but Whittaker’s grandad was a diplomat so he was always going to win that custody battle.” He scoffed bitterly. On the two occasions that he had met Whittaker’s grandfather his urge to punch him had escalated significantly.

“It was probably for the best. Not like me or Lucy could raise him. Aunt Joan always wanted kids though.” Strike said before blowing out a long puff of smoke.

“That must have been awful, dealing with all of that when your mum had just died.” Robin said.

“I didn’t really care to be honest. I know it sounds terrible but I didn’t care about him, not the way I did about Lucy. I never looked after him, Lucy was the one that helped mum out. To me he was just this screaming baby that woke me up every night and made mum miserable.” Strike heard Robin inhale but he’d long ago made peace with his actions and feelings back then.

“Did you think your mum would leave Whittaker? Before the baby was born?” Robin had hit the nail on the head. The wedding had been one of the worst days of his life but he’d always hung on to the idea that a divorce wasn’t far away. Leda had never wanted to marry any of Strike’s other brief step-dads and they’d all been better options than Whittaker. Throughout the vows Strike’s mind had drifted and he had imagined the day when Leda would kick Whittaker out and Strike could gloat as she threw his clothes and guitars out of the flat, hopefully over a railing from a few floors up, and flushed his drugs supply down the toilet. And then she’d sat him and Lucy down and told them she was having Whittaker’s baby and the bottom had fallen out of his world. That was it, she’d be attached to him for life, whether lurking in the distance like Jonny Rokeby or showing up for designated visits like Rick Fantoni. Leda had been upset at their reactions; Strike had left angrily and stayed at Nick’s for a few days and Lucy had begged Leda to leave Whittaker. She’d come up with a plan for Leda to tell Whittaker it had been a mistake and she wasn’t pregnant. They’d all escape to Cornwall, Leda would file for divorce and Whittaker would never know about the baby and never touch them again.

“Yeah.” Strike told Robin quietly. His headache still hadn’t eased so he balanced his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray and got up to grab a painkiller.

“Are he and Whittaker close?” Robin asked dubiously as she came to join him by the kitchenette and watched as he swallowed two pills and then grabbed the bag of medication he’d left the hospital with and swallowed one more.

“I don’t know. Doubt it, Whittaker never liked him as a baby.” Strike hissed as he put his weight on his bad leg and a pain shot through his kneecap. He cursed his stump in his thoughts. It hadn’t been giving him any more trouble than usual lately and the last thing he needed now was for it to start giving out.

“Is your leg alright?” Strike opened his mouth and Robin quickly added, “apart from being blown off.” Robin smiled teasingly.

“Yeah. It feels like a dream compared to this,” he struggled to find the right word and settled on, “hangover.”

“Why don’t you go to bed-“

“It’s only after six.” Strike argued.

“Do I need to run through what’s happened to you in the past few days again or-“

“No thank you.”

“Look, Wardle is tracking down Whittaker, Shanker is doing the same with Switch. You can afford to take a break until the morning. I’ll email you any updates so you’ll see them first thing when you wake up.” Robin argued, reminding him of a strange amalgamation of Ilsa, Lucy and aunt Joan. He watched her sideways and was thankful when a small smile graced her face.

“Alright.” Strike capitulated and made his way slowly to the door, grabbing the plastic bag of supplies and half eaten food Robin had gotten him.

“And no work. Just go to bed.” She warned, the dark circles under his eyes only enhancing his sickly appearance.

“Yes boss.” He said as he disappeared through the doorway.

Robin watched him leave and listened to his steps disappear as the sound of rain on the window and traffic outside filled the silence. She walked to her desk and gave the mouse a shake to wake up her computer. Buried in a sub-file under a generic name was all the information she had found about Whittaker during the Shacklewell Ripper case that pertained to Leda and her death. Robin clicked on a file and opened a picture of a dark haired, twenty-something man with deep set eyes and pale skin. He was looking directly at the camera with no trace of a smile, just a penetrating gaze at whoever was taking the picture. The edge of a tattoo was visible on his chest at the neckline of his t-shirt and his hair appeared wet and hung in lanky tails around his face. The longer Robin stared at it the darker his eyes seemed to become. Her attention was broken by the hum of Strike’s shower coming on above.

Robin stayed another two hours and rearranged various meetings and responded to emails. Wardle sent a few texts with updates that contained very little progress and Ilsa called on her drive home from her office to ask about Strike. The rain had just begun to ease off when Robin quickly printed a copy of the photograph, shoved it in her handbag and locked up the office. She crept up the stairs to Strike’s flat and listened to the light snores drifting under the door before joining other workers heading for the tube via the rain soaked streets of London, calling Shanker on her way.

Wardle had sent her a picture of the poem Strike had found and as she sat on the tube she couldn’t help but repeat one of the lines over and over in her head.

_‘The reduction of the many from the one.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Switch theory comes to the fore! But why? And....... really? *evil side eye*
> 
> Thanks again for reading/commenting/kudos. After it driving me insane multiple times, I've had a wonderful reaction to this fic and I'm glad people are enjoying it. Onwards.


	12. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if there are mistakes I've missed (that should probably go for the whole fic), my brain hasn't been cooperating today.

**Chapter 12**

**I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.**

“… alright, thanks again. Will do.” Robin heard Strike say as he entered, door banging off the couch as it swung open.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Strike scowled as he put his phone back in his pocket.

“When’s the last time you greeted me with a smile? ‘Morning Robin’, ‘lovely day Robin’, fancy a cuppa Robin?’.” She teased.

“Sorry.” Strike said, scowl disappearing as he noticed a lightness to her demeanour. She looked well rested, which is more than he felt. He’d fallen asleep on his bed after getting out of the shower, towel discarded and a tube of E45 for his stump still in his hand, and then woken around midnight when a car alarm went off outside. He’d eaten the Mars bar and crisps Robin had gotten him and then gotten into bed with a cup of tea and a cigarette, finally beginning to feel normal again. It had been short-lived as he’d woken after 10am cursing the fact that he’d forgotten to set an alarm and hurrying around his flat to get dressed all while the feeling of a second day hangover began to take effect.

“Who was that on the phone?” She asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“The doctor that treated me. Apparently when he finally conceded that I wasn’t a heroin addict Nick asked him to do a HIV test on the blood they’d taken.”

“Oh.” Robin said, her heart finding its way to her throat. She hadn’t even thought that he could have been injected with a used needle.

“Anyway, it was negative. So that’s something.”

“Yeah. Thank god.” Robin sighed in relief.

Her brows then furrowed as she looked at him and Strike became self-conscious under her gaze. When he brushed his teeth he had briefly noticed that having fallen asleep with wet hair he’d ended up with it standing on end at the back and right side and being completely flat everywhere else. He brushed his fingers quickly through his hair when Robin turned back to her desk.

“So, I found something.” Robin said with a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation. Strike turned from where he had begun to walk down the short corridor into the inner office and joined her at her desk.

Robin opened up the file on her computer and showed him the photograph. He knew instantly who it was and yet the feeling that this was a stranger seemed to slap him in the face.

“Switch.” He said quietly.

“Mm.” Robin confirmed, watching him closely for a reaction.

His face had softened, yet still there was an edge there. He had stiffened and Robin saw his mouth open and close as if lost for words. He nodded his head and then looked at her with a soft smile.

“That’s bloody good work Robin. Where did you find it?” He asked.

“Oh, when we were looking for Whittaker, when I was sent that leg I-“

“The leg?” He interrupted.

Robin tensed at the change in his expression. His eyes seemed to have darkened, not unlike the look in the eyes of the young man in the photograph.

“Yeah, I-“

“You’ve had a picture of him since then and you never showed it to me.” He asked, confusion written across his face.

“No, I…” Robin faltered. At first when she found it she had felt a sense of guilt. Guilt that she was digging so deeply into Strike’s past without his knowledge or permission. She should have told him, she knew that, but then everything had happened with the wedding and him ‘firing’ her and the relationship morphed and changed and when she felt on solid ground again with him, suddenly it felt too late. He was so private and closed off about his past that she wasn’t sure how he’d take it, and if she was honest with herself she had missed their relationship so much in the aftermath of the wedding disaster that she didn’t want to risk throwing a wrench in it again. Time had passed and it just seemed harder to face.

“I was going to, I just… Cormoran, don’t be mad, please?” She said as she saw his nostrils flair. He got up and started pacing the room, fingers going up to massage his temples.

“What I told you… I don’t talk about mum’s death, not the details, not how I felt, not how it feels, I stopped talking about it when the trial ended and I trusted you-“

“Cormoran-“

“I trusted you, and I sat there and told you because you talked to me about honesty.” He spat the last word and Robin felt like the roof was caving in on top of them.

“No, I… Cormoran, I wasn’t looking for it, I just… stumbled across it when I was trying to track down Whittaker and-“

“And never told me?”

“I wasn’t hiding it from you.”

“Could have fooled me.” He said bitterly.

“I found it when I was researching Whittaker, I wasn’t even looking for Switch it just popped up and-“

“And you thought you’d keep it for the family album? Any other pictures, hm? Got some nice ones of Lucy leaving court crying? Or me?” He asked, voice laced with cruelty.

“Cormoran-“

“That’s my life Robin, it’s not some case for anyone using the fucking office computer to see.” He said, kicking the bottom of the couch as he passed and causing her to flinch from where she sat at her desk.

“It was hidden, no one would have-“

“How would you feel if I had a file all about your ra-“ He stopped himself before continuing but caught Robin’s sharp intake of breath, as if she’d just been slapped.

“I’m sorry, that was…” Strike felt his anger move direction from Robin to himself and cursed as he brought a hand to his head and roughly squeezed at his temples.

“Robin, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” She said coldly and he watched with a feeling of deep shame as she took steadying breaths, breaths of anger and hurt.

“Fuck.” He whispered and collapsed down onto the couch.

“Why do we keep doing this?” She whispered, almost to herself.

“Doing what?” He asked.

“This… we keep… we get closer and then…” Robin couldn’t find the words and shook her head.

“I asked you once what you wanted from me.” She continued.

“Yes.” Strike said, watching her carefully with quiet trepidation.

“I think we both know what we want from each other.” She said and Strike felt his lungs freeze. She held his gaze with her own steady and assured eyes.

“Robin…” He began and then faltered.

“You don’t need to say anything. But I think it needed to be said.”

It was as though she had shook him to his core. Her steady gaze pinning him there, not challenging him to say anything or declare anything but clearly shifting everything under his feet half a mile ahead.

“I kept the file on my computer because I thought that when the day came, I could help. When Whittaker finally makes a wrong move, I’d be able to help. So that one day you and Lucy would get justice for your mum. That’s all it was Cormoran, I swear.” Robin explained.

She watched Strike’s face carefully. He looked past her and then down at the floor and then nodded as there eyes met and an understanding passed between them.

“I’m sorry.” He said, “For what I said.”

“Apology accepted. And I’m sorry for not telling you about what I found.”

“Apology accepted.” He replied.

A moment of silence hung in the air as she watched an array of emotions pass across Cormoran’s eyes before he took a breath.

“Robin, I…” Her eyes were wide as they watched him, her lips slightly parted and her body still. “That year after your wedding… I… Robin…” He cringed internally at how tangled his words sounded.

_That year was hell and I think I’m in love with you._

In love he had always been the saviour or the one in need of saving, but with Robin? Whenever he allowed his thoughts to drift and he imagined the arguments they would have, over money or who forgot to do the washing up or buy milk, it was the allure of ease that caught him by surprise every time. How easy it would be to love her and be loved by her. To know the fire of passion but not be burnt by it, to be consumed but not devoured, to have the comfort without the pain.

“Robin, I-“

Heavy footsteps suddenly encroached on the room as they reverberated up the stairs. Robin looked between him and the door, spotting a shadowy figure emerging behind the glass.

“Wardle.” She said as the door opened to reveal the detective.

“Found Whittaker.” He said in lieu of a greeting.

“Where?” Robin asked, voice steady with only a small glance thrown Strike’s way.

Wardle moved to stand by the partition wall beside the kitchenette. He leaned against it and then looked between the two of them, brows furrowing slightly.

“He’s been in Manchester for the last two months.” He explained.

“Manchester?” Strike asked.

“Yeah. I was talking to a copper I know up there and I mentioned it to him not expecting anything but turns out he almost had him for cocaine possession last month. Apparently he’s involved with some guys feeding off the college crowd. Course that doesn’t mean he isn’t the one pulling the strings with this Ab character.”

“Mm.” Robin sighed in agreement and Wardle looked more closely between them.

“What have you both found then?” The detective asked.

“Nothing.” Robin answered, a little too quickly.

“Nothing?” Wardle repeated sceptically.

“Just a dead end about Ab and an email from a nutter that turned out to be nothing.” Robin quickly supplied.

“Right. Nothing else?” Wardle asked, glancing over at Strike.

“Don’t look at me, I’m on sick leave.” Cormoran said. He thought he heard a exhale of silent laughter from Robin.

“You look it.” Wardle scoffed and Strike wondered whether he was sarcastically referencing the usual work attire he was wearing or the fact that he still looked like death warmed over.

“Why are you here Wardle?” Strike asked as he stretched his bad leg out.

“I was just passing, thought I’d pop in.” He said, message clearly sent to both Robin and Strike that he was suspicious.

“Cause you always just pop in for a chat.” Strike arched an eyebrow at him.

“Alright if I’m honest I think you’re fucking up to something Gooner.”

Robin looked between the two of them and tried, not for the first time, to read Strike’s mind. It would be far easier to track Switch down with Wardle’s help but as Strike opened his mouth to reply Robin could almost predict his response.

“What makes you say that?” Strike smiled and Robin had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes at his antagonistic tone.

Wardle just shook his head and sighed with the air of someone who had spent the night chasing their tale and trying to help an uncooperative victim.

“If you end up dangling from a bridge I’m leaving you there.” He said as he turned to leave.

“Wardle-“

“I’m serious. If you end up dead, fine, my blood pressure will be grateful, but what about your partner?” Wardle said, his arm outstretched towards where she sat at her desk.

Strike glared at him and Robin felt a shift in the balance between the two. Wardle shook his head and pulled the office door open.

“Don’t call me when you need saving.” Wardle said as he left and as the door shut Robin thought she heard some less than savoury words.

“Tea?” Strike asked, his eyebrows lifted and his face light.

“You enjoy butting heads with him don’t you?”

“Don’t know what you mean?” He replied as he pulled himself tiredly from the couch and walked over to the kettle. Robin followed, grabbing the milk from the fridge as he grabbed the tea bags from the caddy. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she surveyed the biscuits, sucking her bottom lip as she glanced between the custard creams and chocolate digestives. Her earlier words came back to him as the kettle began to rumble.

_“I think we both know what we want from each other.”_

* * *

“Do you think Professor Casanova’s classes will be any good?” Robin asked Strike. It was approaching the end of the working day and she’d been checking up on the timetable for Casanova’s classes. Their other cases had understandably taken a back seat and she’d used every ounce of charm in the emails and calls she’d made rearranging meetings and bluffing her way through case updates. She’d have to start implementing their plan for the Professor in the next few days though. His seminars were large enough that she wouldn’t seem too out of place suddenly appearing at the back of the lecture hall halfway through the year but she still felt the need to give herself a brief crash course in economics.

“‘ _The Wealth and Poverty of Nations: Historical Economic Divergence across the Globe_ ’, that doesn’t sound too bad.” She said, adding “for economics” as an afterthought.

Robin looked up when Strike didn’t answer and saw that he had fallen asleep. Although he kept assuring her that he was fine he hadn’t moved from the couch all day except for toilet breaks and to make tea, instead he had tapped away at his laptop and sent a few texts on his phone. The laptop was still on his knees but had slid sideways slightly and his chin was resting on his chest. He had a little colour back in his cheeks and the lines on his face had eased with sleep. Robin stood and gently took the laptop from his knees, placing it on the couch beside him. She straightened and watched him as his chest rose and fell, his knee touching her’s and she could almost imagine the warmth from him seeping into her leg. His stubble had grown thicker, in need of a trim even before the overdose, and it darkened his face somewhat, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced.

She debated about whether to wake him and try to usher him upstairs, no doubt he’d just refuse and go back to working, but her thoughts were interrupted by a buzz coming from his pocket. He came awake groggily, his head shooting up and his eyes staring blankly in front of him as the world came into focus. Robin stepped back and smiled as he looked around confusedly and then settled his eyes on her before realising why he had woken. He pulled his phone from his pocket and Robin moved to sit on the edge of her desk.

“I think I might ‘ave him Bunsen.” Shanker’s voice announced as Strike answered.

“What? Already? How?” Strike said and Robin stood up, her eyes wide as she mouthed ‘put it on speaker’ to him. Strike rolled his eyes before taking the phone from his ear.

“You’re on speaker, Robin’s here.”

“Knew you couldn’t hide it from ‘er you mug.”

“I told her actually, she didn’t-“ Strike stopped when he saw Robin’s arched eyebrow and sighed admitting defeat.

“Sure you did.” Shanker replied.

“Shanker, come on, spill it.” Robin said impatiently as she sat beside Strike on the couch.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’. Well I was havin’ my usual Wednesday night drink wi’ one o’ the lads. A bloke I know, we’ll call ‘im an associate shall we for legal purposes-“

“Shanker.” Strike warned.

“You’ve no appreciation for my story tellin’ Bunsen, you know that? Never has Robin.”

“Shanker!” Both Robin and Strike shouted.

“Alrigh’, christ. So I showed him that picture that Robin gave me-“

“That Robin gave….” Strike began with a puzzled frown and then looked at Robin who smiled apologetically.

“Course she did, go on.” Strike ushered.

“Well I showed it to ‘im, not really thinking much would come of it. Terry, my associate, he’s a little more on the straight n’ narrow than I am. Not sexually speaking mind, ‘e’s gettin’ married to this skinny pianist from Chelsea. He’s a posh twat but I’m hopin’ for an invite to the weddin’-“

“So you can fleece the rich guests when the drinks start flowing?” Strike asked pessimistically.

“Shanker, that’s awful.” Robin said.

“Well they won’t miss it n’ a wedding like that could set me up for the year Robin.” He explained.

“Back to the story Shanker.” Strike said as he rubbed his eyes, his headache rumbling in the back of his head.

“So Terry ‘elps runs a library out in Hampstead-“

“How did you become friends with a librarian in Hampstead?” Strike interjected and Robin hit him in the chest with the back of her hand.

“Shanker, never mind that. Did Terry see Switch?” Robin asked and Strike smiled at the sparkle in her eyes.

“Long story short, yes. Thinks it’s ‘im anyway, can’t be sure. There’s a kid that comes in most days, sits down the back past the biography section where it’s quiet, he says. Doesn’t bother anyone and never takes anythin’ out but Terry finds books hidden under the chair he uses all the time with bookmarks in ‘em. Had to tell him off once for writing in the books but apart from ‘at he doesn’t give him any trouble.”

“Right.” Strike said lost in thought.

“Does Terry know where lives?” Robin asked.

“No, but I’m goin’ wi’ him to the library tomorrow and he agreed to point ‘im out to me. Thought I’d follow ‘im home if your up for it Bunsen?”

“What time?” Strike asked.

“Terry says he usually comes in before lunch.”

“Right, text me the library address and I’ll meet you nearby.”

“We’ll meet you Shanker.” Robin said before turning to Strike, “You’re not going alone.”

“You’re not coming, he might be dangerous.”

“Might be? He tried to kill you, you knob.” Shanker shouted down the phone.

“Strike, I’m serious. You’re not doing this alone.”

“I’ll be with Shanker.” Strike casually said and Robin rolled her eyes.

“Do I need to remind you-“

“Robin.” Strike sighed.

“-that you got out of hospital yesterday, that you almost died, that you look winded just walking down the stairs from the attic to the office _and_ that you haven’t moved from that couch all day.”

“Got you there Bunsen.” Shanker shouted over the sound of a passing siren.

“Shanker? Text me the address.” Robin said, grabbing the phone from Strike’s hand.

“Will do.” He replied and Strike grabbed the phone from Robin.

“Shanker!” Strike shouted.

“Sorry mate, you’re breakin’ up. Can’t ‘ear-“ With a beep the phone went dead.

Strike turned and looked at Robin, a strange mixture of exasperation and resignation on his face. He leant forward and put his head in his hands and let out a breath.

“Just think of it as a blind date.” Robin said in a bid to lighten his mood.

“If anything happens you run, alright? If Switch tries anything, you leave it to me and Shanker.” He turned to look at her before continuing, “Promise me?”

“Cormoran-“

“Promise me?” He said, his voice raised and an edge to it that Robin rarely heard.

“Fine.” She said.

He sat back and scrubbed a hand across his face before wincing.

“Headache?” Robin asked. She had the urge to reach out and smooth the lines across his forehead.

“Mm.” He mumbled and she watched as he squinted.

Robin grabbed a glass of water and pulled the box of paracetamol from her desk drawer.

“Here.” She said, passing them to him.

Robin sat beside him and then turned her head towards the window, trying to make out the words as someone shouted from the street below. Her thoughts began to drift and from nowhere Lula Landry’s voice floated through her mind.

_I’m going to see him… after all this time._


	13. I fancied you'd return the way you said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter. Eeeeeeeeek!

**Chapter 13**

**I fancied you'd return the way you said**

Robin looked across at Strike as the tube emptied out at Camden Town. He was sitting on one of the fold down seats at the end of the row swiping through something on his phone with a toddler asleep in a stroller beside him, taking no notice as people filed past and out of the carriage. He’d called Shanker this morning in an endeavour to get the address out of him but all bribery, and, miraculously, offers of money, had failed and the most he’d been able to garner was that he and Robin needed to get the northern line to Hampstead. He’d argued with Robin and used every trick he could to get the address out of her but short of rooting through her handbag, where she had buried her phone containing the texted address from Shanker, he had to admit defeat. If Robin was honest she had taken a certain amount of pleasure in holding the balance of power.  
 ****

Robin swapped seats and took the empty one beside him as the doors shut. Out of the corner of her eye she saw he was reading through a document on his phone and Robin recognised it as her notes about Leda’s death. Before looking away she saw him delete a paragraph. She had danced around it as they parted the night before and then finally told him she would email it to him and delete it from the office computer. She wouldn’t keep a copy and it would be his to do with as he wanted. He had looked away, nodded his head and then offered a quick thanks before vanishing up the stairs to his flat.

They arrived at Hampstead tube station and in silence made their way up from one of the deepest platforms on the underground via the spacious metal lifts. Strike kept throwing her frustrated glances as they walked down the hill and came to various possible turns.

“Straight on.” She’d say and he’d shake his head in annoyance.

“God, is this what you’d be like if I took you back to Masham?” She teased, slowing her pace a little as she noticed the long downhill walk was making him limp as his bad knee turned out awkwardly with each step.

“Not if you just pointed me in the direction of the pub.” He mumbled as they navigated around a woman with various breeds of dogs on leashes.

It was agreed that Strike and Robin would keep a distance and Shanker would be the one to hang around the library. If he spotted Cormoran then their plan would fold, whereas Shanker kept a low enough profile that Switch shouldn’t remember him nor have been able to track down a picture of him online. After taking a right turn and only slightly decreasing the downhill slope they were on Strike could almost feel the pain in his stump that would come with the climb back to the tube station. The bottom of his kneecap was already throbbing every few seconds in objection to his descent. Taking a right at a divergence in the road Strike recognised that they were headed for the Keats community library. So what was Switch doing hanging around this kind of neighbourhood?

“Do you think Switch lives nearby?” Robin asked, as if reading his thoughts.

“Maybe. Whittaker’s grandfather could afford a place around here.” He mused. The thought came to Strike that Switch might have grown up in Hampstead, that he might have lived a life closer to Al’s than his.

Strike and Robin waited at the end of the road partially obscured by the hedges that encircled the plush townhouse they were hiding outside. They were lucky in that it was the kind of Hampstead community where nannies and gardeners were common but security patrols were few. That being said Robin was conscious that Strike did not look like any of the men they had passed on the walk from the tube station.

“Maybe we should walk on a bit.” She said, glancing back at the house they were in front of and hoping its occupants were at work.

“No, we might miss them leaving.” He replied, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

Robin received a text from Shanker. He was inside and had Switch in his sights. They were all aware that they could be left standing for a few hours depending on how long Switch stayed. That was if Shanker didn’t do something to be asked to leave first.

“I could have found the library from the tube station.” Strike said, looking like a petulant child with a cigarette instead of a rattle.

“There’s at least three libraries within walking distance from the tube station. By the time you’d traipse up and down these hills finding the right one Shanker and Switch could be long gone and all you’d have to show for it would be a sore leg.”

“Do wonders for a man’s self-esteem, you do.” He replied, giving her a sideways looks as he finished his cigarette. “And it’s only one hill, in case you didn’t notice.”

Robin narrowed her eyes at him and sucked in her cheeks to stop a smile coming when he laughed at her.

A woman passed with a group of children tailing her, all talking over each other and Robin caught part of a conversation about a boy named Harry moving schools.

“Did Leda take you to the library when you were younger?” Robin asked, a strange mix of boredom at their current situation and anxiety at what they were potentially about to face running through her.

“No.” He said, turning a box of matches over in his hand. “And you don’t have to try and fish for comparisons. Switch and I aren’t brothers, just happen to share a mother.” The last part came more quietly.

“I’m not I just… never mind.” Robin surrendered. A moment passed and Strike stepped closer to her as a delivery van partially blocked his view.

“Lucy and I sometimes went together.” He said offhandedly. “If it was raining and there was nowhere else to go.”

Robin had just opened her mouth to reply when he stood taller and put a hand on her elbow.

“Shanker!” He said and Robin looked past him immediately.

She spotted Shanker just leaving through the narrow pedestrian gate at the bottom of the path that lead into the library. He glanced up towards them with a blank expression and then rubbed a hand across his neck before turning right out of the gate. Robin looked past him and saw a tall, skinny man dressed in dark clothes heading down the road.

“There he is.” Strike said as he set off at a measured pace with Robin quickly following.

Shanker had his phone out, to all intents and purposes oblivious to his surroundings, but Switch never looked back once. Just walked on, quickly and with purpose but with a slight manic energy to his stride. When he got to the bottom of the road he took a right and soon they saw signs for Hampstead Heath train station.

“You should stay with Shanker.” Strike said as they walked, glancing at a man cycling past on the other side of the road.

“Cormoran, we already talked about-“

“If something happens…”

“I can look after myself.” Robin said as forcefully as she could. He shook his head and she saw his jaw clench.

“If something happens, you run. That’s what we agreed. You get out and get Shanker.” He said, eyes off Switch and Shanker and solely on her as they kept walking.

Robin didn’t respond, instead she tipped her head up and moved her phone from her front pocket to her back. They continued on and took a left, the railway station becoming visible up ahead as they followed Shanker and Switch up the road that began to incline. Robin heard a sharp intake of breath from Strike and looked up to see him wincing. He looked pale and tired but they couldn’t slow down, Switch had picked up his pace and was past the rail station, and heading beyond a pub with a sign in need of a lick of paint. He looked to be heading up a road lined with brown brick townhouses on one side and council flats on the other. Shanker drifted back to loiter outside the council flats and Strike and Robin hid behind the tall shrubs at the bottom of the road when Switch crossed and made his way into a house halfway along the street. Strike gave Shanker a nod and he pulled out his phone again and leaned back against the railings outside the council flats, they had agreed earlier that he would wait outside as back up if needed.

Strike looked down the road at the front door of the house and then back, his eyes darkening.

“Robin-“

“Oh for god’s sake, you’re not going in there alone! Now come on.” Robin said, setting off towards the house.

The front garden was overgrown and a rusted bike lay in the grass, a stark contrast to the well kept houses either side. The front door was a faded green with paint peeling at each corner and a dead potted plant sat on the steps up to it. Robin paused on the first step, noticing the door was slightly ajar. Strike pushed past her, making sure he was in front as they got closer. He pushed the door open slightly, waiting for any sound to indicate Switch was near. When none came they entered quietly.

The hallway was dark, unusually so for the kind of house it was and Robin looked back and saw brown paper tapped across the window above the front door. There was a clear view down the hall into the kitchen and Robin saw the brown paper was present across the window there too. She sensed Strike stiffen at the scene, it looked like some cross between a drug den and a conspiracy theorist’s bunker. They heard movement above and Strike headed for the stairs with Robin quickly behind.

“Switch.” Strike called out and the movement above stopped. Music, very low and quiet, reached their ears and Strike looked back at Robin.

They made their way up the stairs and saw that the entire first floor was practically open plan, partition walls all gone except for one that was half torn down on the far left. Whatever finished floors were once there had been pulled away and only the tattered old flooring underneath remained. Strike paused on the first step trying to give himself some sort of shelter behind the banister as he took in the room and tried to locate Switch. He wasn’t hard to find. Straight ahead of them Switch was sitting on a mattress with a coffee table pulled in front of him. He was tapping a finger against a small blue speaker and as Strike listened he felt a jolt run down his spine when he recognised Blue Oyster Cult pouring out. It had been edited so that ‘quicklime girl’ repeated over and over, the cheerful tone of Eric Bloom contrasting with the pentagrams and lecherous music posters plastered against the walls and windows to create a house of horrors effect.

“Switch.” Robin called softly and Strike realised he had paused.

Switch turned at Robin’s voice, his shoulder length hair flashing around in long tendrils. His face lit up and Strike felt his stomach drop.

“You came?” Switch said, standing now and looking around him as if his dinner guests had turned up early. Strike just looked at him, all words somehow deserting him.

“Who’s she?” He asked Strike, head nodding in Robin’s direction. He kept rubbing a hand up and down his stomach and twitching nervously.

“My name is Robin.” She replied, slowly stepping forward to be beside Strike. From her tone Strike knew she had the same impression of Switch as he did, that he would easily scare and run.

Switch looked between the two of them and then away towards the other side of the room. He looked anxious, as if Robin’s presence had changed his plans. “Okay.” He said, his lips turning up awkwardly.

He was a strange mixture of Whittaker and Strike, Robin thought. His entire appearance modelled on his father but something in his eyes and his face reminded her of Strike.

“Switch… what-“ Cormoran began but Switch started forward with a manic energy.

“I’m glad you came.” He said, looking Strike up and down and then smiling at Robin. He dashed away to the other side of the room and Robin and Strike followed. There was one giant collage splashed across the wall and Strike felt Robin’s hand brush his as she came to stand beside him.

A life-sized image of Leda was looking down at them. It was one of the most famous photographs from her modelling days, she was dressed in a flowing, bell-sleeved white gown with her long dark hair parted in the middle and left to fall naturally. It was the dress she had been buried in, Strike remembered and wondered if Switch knew that. The last time he had seen it had been in Ciara Porter’s apartment. Strike had a sudden flashback to his meetings with Ab. The nondescript images he would pull out to show him, of grey street corners and rows of council flats, were all plastered onto the wall in an order that framed Leda into a perfect square. _A caged dove_ , thought Strike.

“I took them.” Switch said, noticing Strike’s eyes looking at each of the bordering images. “They’re the places we lived. Me and mum.” He explained, adding “and dad” quietly, almost as an afterthought.

Strike now realised why he hadn’t recognised the buildings in the images. He must have lived in one of them, one of the flats with a blue doorway looked familiar, but he had moved to Cornwall for the summer after Switch was born and then on to Oxford come September.

“You lived there with us.” Switch said, as if reading his thoughts, and pointed to the one in the top right hand corner.

“What the fuck is this Switch?” Strike asked as Robin moved away slightly, looking at the magazines and pieces of paper on the floor.

“No, no, please.” Switch said anxiously when she crouched down to pick one up.

“Sorry.” Robin said, standing and glancing back at Strike.

“Switch?” Strike prompted.

“I made it, I make things. Do you think she’d like it?” Switch asked, his attention turning back to the collage on the wall.

“No.” Strike replied simply and Robin looked at him in warning.

“She would.” Switch said firmly.

“How the fuck would you know?” Strike countered, he could feel the anger rising in him. All he saw was another version of Whittaker standing between him and Leda, morphing her image for his own amusement.

“I know her, she’s my mother. She’d like it, she’d appreciate it.” He rambled.

“She probably wouldn’t appreciate one son trying to kill another.”

“Cormoran!” Robin warned.

“No, that.. I didn’t want to, I had… that was another plan, I had another plan, that was…” Panic was seeping into Switch’s words and he began pulling at the hem of his t-shirt.

He pulled it down enough that Strike caught a glimpse of the tattoo and suddenly he was pulled from the room and back in the office the morning of the overdose. He remembered waking up on the office couch and feeling trapped in his body, his limbs falling clumsily when he tried to move and the room seesawing as he lifted his head and looked around. Then he was on the ground and his vision had narrowed and all he saw was the needle being pulled back by a dark shadow above. As a rush of euphoria began to race through him like he’d been thrown into icy water he reached up and grabbed a fistful of cotton, revealing itself to be a black t-shirt belonging to the man looming over him. Strike pulled roughly and the man with uncle Ted’s eyes and the mouth of his mother fell to his knees beside him. As Strike’s heart jackhammered and thumped painfully against his ribs he caught sight of a tattoo where Switch’s t-shirt had been pulled askew. It was the most basic of Blue Oyster Cult tattoos, the ‘cross of questioning’, or the symbol of Cronus depending on who you asked, that his mother would sometimes draw for him to colour in when he was young and didn’t know what it meant.

“It was his plan… I had another plan…” Switch continued rambling and Strike’s attention was brought back to the younger man in front of him.

“Who Switch? Whose plan was it?” Robin said, her voice soft and a smile on her face as she stepped closer to him.

“Did you try to find me?” Switch asked Strike suddenly.

“No.” Strike said truthfully.

“I thought I’d done something to… he said that you’d tried to visit me but…” Switch began mumbling to himself and Strike and Robin looked at each other. He looked to be spiralling, twitching nervously and his eyes darting about the room.

“Who said that?” Strike asked but Switch didn’t answer.

“Where did you get the heroin from Switch?” Strike pressed. Switch looked back at him then and frowned.

“I… do you like it? Do you like it Robin?” Switch’s attention moved back to the collage and Robin thought she could see his eyes begin to glisten.

“She looks beautiful.” Robin said and out of the corner of her eye she saw Strike look at her.

“She is.” Switch said. _Is, not was_ , Robin noticed.

“Who gave you the heroin Switch?” Strike repeated.

“I had it.” He said quietly. Strike sighed and his head dropped.

“Do you use it? Do you use heroin Switch?” His voice sounded tired, Robin thought, as though this was another moment in a long line of disappointments.

“He said she liked it.” Switch said simply. Strike took a step forward, his own bulk seeming to tower over Switch even though there was barely any difference in their heights.

“She..? My mother hated heroin, she would hate you for using it and if you knew anything about her you would know that.” Strike said through gritted teeth and the way he spat the words scared Robin.

“No. No…. no, no….” Switch said and walked away, back towards the mattress in front of the stairs.

“Who made you do this Switch?” Robin asked, following Strike over towards Switch.

“I wanted to.” He replied, unconvincingly.

“Who was the man you had meet me? His name isn’t Eric Bloom, who is he really?” Strike demanded.

“He…” Switch winced as if the words were paining him. “I don’t know him.” He said, turning and walking to the wall and then tapping his fingers against it. There were blue flowers covering the wall, some drawn and others obviously cut out of a magazine.

“What was her favourite flower?” He asked, walking back towards Strike.

An image of Erica Carnea flashed through Strike’s mind before he answered, “She didn’t have one.” Switch’s face fell in disappointment.

“You’re just saying that. He said it was red roses, that she loved red roses. That was it, wasn’t it? Tell me. What was it?” He asked, his eyes darkening.

“No.”

“Cormoran.” Robin warned again, sensing a shift in Switch’s demeanour.

“You have to tell me, she’s not just yours. She’s my mother too, you don’t own her.”

“Neither do you.” Strike said, his own expression full of hatred, his nostrils flared in disgust.

“I do, she’s… she’s my mother.” Switch began to wring his hands together and Robin’s hand reached behind to where her phone was hidden in her back pocket, itching to call to Shanker.

“She’d have hated you for what you did to me.” Strike said, suddenly weighted down with the thought of Leda seeing them like this. Her hugs were the most palpable of memories that he had of her and a small, long hidden away part of him imagined her arms around him now.

“No. She… no, she’d understand. I couldn’t…”

“Look at you, you’re just like the man that killed her.” Strike spat.

“No, he didn’t. It wasn’t him.” Switch whispered, his eyes darting around the room. “He told me he did it, that’s why it had to be the same way.” He continued.

“Who told you he did it? Did someone tell you they killed Leda?” Robin asked and Strike took a step closer.

“Who? Whittaker?” Strike asked Switch.

“No. I… I don’t talk to him, I don’t like him… it was the other one.” Switch mumbled and then whispered the last part, his face contorted as he became more anxious.

“Who?” Strike shouted.

“He said you were always looking at the wrong side, the wrong side of the dock.”

“Who, who said that?” Strike

“I can’t. It’s for you, I can’t tell you cause... I can’t.”

“Switch, it’s okay, calm down.” Robin said as he moved around Strike and towards the stairs.

“No, stop… I shouldn’t have… I just wanted to see you but he said it could only be this way. I’m sorry.” He said, reaching a hand towards Strike.

“Who told you they killed Leda? Tell me.” Strike’s tone left no room for argument and Robin imagined him in an SIB interrogation room with a suspect.

“No. Stop.”

“Tell me.”

“No, please, I’m trying to help, I want to be good, she’d want me to be good.” Switch said, his hands clenching and unclenching, the words not coming quick enough.

“Switch?” Robin said softly.

“Tell me!” Strike shouted and the instant the words left his mouth Switch seemed to explode out of himself. Robin watched as he grew taller than Strike, his scrawny body stretching and becoming one great rock as he barrelled into Strike.

“No!” Robin shouted, seeing what was about to happen as the action was already in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one last little cliff hanger (HOW is there only one chapter left?!).
> 
> Considering we know barely anything about Switch I, somehow, really enjoyed writing him. Not sure how worried I should be about that considering the direction I went with him, lol. He has definitely wormed his way into my fic writing heart though.
> 
> The library bit is a nod to the Tomblr society of Tumblr. It is a real library and is right next door to Keats House! Which is a wonderful little house (and garden) if you are any way Romanticist inclined or just want a nice trip out to Hampstead. I mean who doesn't want to cry over tuberculosis (lol at Tom's initials being TB), see a death mask of Keats and cringe at the tools doctors used back in the day for bloodletting. 😀 (AHHH I LOVE IT and this is me restraining myself from going off on a Romanticism tangent, but it was one of the first places I ever visited in London and is actually responsible for my decent into Byromania but I will shut up now cause you're here for Strike and not Romanticism).


	14. But I grow old and I forget your name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *nervous smiles*
> 
> "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more....."
> 
> (I've read this too much for it to still make sense to me. Be gentle.)

**Chapter 14**

**But I grow old and I forget your name.**

Strike braced himself but the blow came on the wrong side and he had half a second to curse his leg before his balance gave out. He felt himself pitch backwards, spinning at an angle and then there was nothing below him. He grabbed blindly but the air was knocked from his lungs and it felt like every bone in his body rattled as he hit the sharp edge of the stairs. He briefly felt someone grabbing at his leg as his world suddenly began to turn over and then he was spinning and a vague sense of panic loomed over him. An involuntary grunt left his mouth as he was thumped again and again and somewhere in the back of his mind his military training kicked in and he managed to pull an arm up to protect his head and neck. His elbow cracked off something and a sharp stinging pain ripped through his arm.

As soon as it began it was over. He landed on his back with one final blunt force that ricocheted from his shoulder blades down into his legs and his prosthetic gave a dull clang as it hit off something. His head bounced off the ground and the world shifted as though it was dazed right along with him. He thought he heard someone call his name but an involuntary groan left Strike’s lips in response to the pain and drowned out everything else. The wind was knocked out of him when he hit the ground and it took a moment for his lungs to begin shuddering to life again. Nausea washed through him as a piercing pain pulsed quickly across his lower back and wrapped around his ribs.

“Switch!” Strike heard Robin shout in the distance.

“Robin?” Strike said, his voice barely above a whisper as pain stole his breath. He couldn’t see either of them from where he was and the image of Switch turning on Robin made him fight to move. He swallowed convulsively and then lifted an arm to grab at the old wooden press at the bottom of the stairs in an attempt to haul himself up. There was a swipe of something dark across the jagged corner of it and Strike realised there was a matching stain on his shirt sleeve, darkening and spreading before his eyes.

“Robin?” He said, louder this time.

“Cormoran?” She shouted and it sent a wash of relief through him until out of the corner of his eyes he caught sight of a dark figure storming down the stairs. Switch barrelled past and Strike reached as far as he could to grab him, his body at the wrong angle.

“Switch!” He shouted, his voice breaking as a stinging pain shot through his back and took his breath away. Switch jumped over him, half falling as he made a dash for the door and Strike managed to grab his ankle. Switch fell, a yelp coming from his lips as he hit the ground hard, and then twisted in an effort to get out of Strike’s grip. With one kick to Strike’s bloody arm the strength behind the grip on his ankle gave out and Switch managed to scramble away, half falling into the wall as he threw himself towards the door.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.” He said as he disappeared out the door.

“Switch!” Strike yelled, on his back now and all the pain in his body channeled into the word. He tried to pull himself up onto his elbow and get his legs under him but pain shot through his spine and bounced out under his ribs. From nowhere a hand appeared on his chest and then Robin’s hair was ghosting across his face.

“Cormoran, stop!” She said, collapsing onto her knees beside him.

“Get Switch, Robin-“ He began to shout.

“Shanker will get him.”

“Robin-“

“You’re bleeding! I’m not leaving you.” She said forcefully, grabbing his arm and pulling it above where he lay. She pressed both hands around his arm in a tight grip and he hissed, a stinging hot pain crawling across his arm from where her hands were. He looked and saw that blood was soaking most of his sleeve on one side. She changed her grip, one hand coming away to find her phone and the other pressing harder against the slash on his arm, halfway between his elbow and armpit. His hand was resting against her collar bone due to the way she was holding his arm, _above his heart_ Strike realised, and her golden hair rustled between his fingers. Robin looked along his body as she pressed the phone to her ear and waited.

“Wardle? We need an ambulance, Cormoran’s hurt. No. We’re in Hampstead, in a house-“

Strike’s breath caught as a tremor ran through his body and he arched his back slightly in a bid to outrun the spark of fiery nerve pain that ran though him.

“-he’s bleeding. We passed the rail station and there was a pub with a blue door on the corner, something Tavern. We’re in one of the houses opposite the council flats.”

“Switch, he needs to get Switch.” Strike said through clenched teeth.

“No, it’s his arm. I know he should have. Wardle, please… It was Switch, Whittaker’s son. No. He pushed down him the stairs and I don’t know-“

“Robin!”

“Shut up!” Robin shouted at Strike before turning her attention back to Wardle.

“I can’t explain now Wardle. No. Yes, he’s gone. Okay. I’ll come out when I hear the siren.” Robin said and then threw the phone on the floor.

“What else hurts?” She asked, returning her other hand to his arm and Strike watched as a drop of blood fell onto her jeans.

“He’s going to disappear if we don’t-” He said quietly as a cold chill settled on top of him.

“Shanker will catch him. What else hurts Cormoran?” Robin asked, her hand coming to press against his cheek before quickly moving back to his arm. She left a splash of blood on his face, as if only now noticing the red that covered her hands.

“My back.” He grunted.

“Okay.” Robin nodded, trying to bury her panic before quietly whispering “Fuck”.

“It’s ok. Can still feel my legs. Leg.” He said in an effort to reassure her.

“That’s good.” She said absentmindedly as she looked down his body again.

“He’s going to get away Robin.”

“He won’t.”

“He will. Robin-“

“I’m not leaving you.” She repeated, her face flushed and worry dragging at her features.

“Fuck’.” Strike grunted, gritting his teeth as he bent his leg at the knee and felt his stomach flip.

“We’ll find him. Now stop moving.”

It felt like forever to Robin before she heard sirens. She had watched as Strike paled and winced and attempted to move about as spasms of pain shot across his back. Her arms had begun to shake and her hands had begun to go numb from holding his arm up and squeezing it so tightly and the sensation of his warm blood staining her hands and sliding down her wrists to send spindles of red down her arms was making her feel anxious and nauseous at the same time. She was fairly sure her own face had lost all colour when the paramedics came, wrapped up his arm and then strapped him into a neck brace and onto a backboard. Strike cursed and insisted he was fine in equal measure but he became silent on the drive to the hospital, looking around the ambulance with wide eyes.

* * *

The black leather folder landed on the table at the end of the bed with a thwack, shaking the cup of water and sending a pen rolling.

“You fucking twat.” Wardle shouted, earning a glare from a passing doctor behind him. Robin had taken the brunt of his frustration over the phone when she explained everything they knew while Cormoran was being examined.

“I’m this close to arresting you for perjury and letting you rot in a cell for the night.” He continued.

Strike just looked at Robin from where he lay and sighed. He wasn’t completely horizontal anymore, thankfully, having been given the all clear for any damage to his spine or neck after scans and the usual poking and prodding. Now they were waiting for someone to stitch up his arm. Steri-Strips had been used to temporarily close the gash while they waited and the bleeding had subsequently slowed to a sluggish drip but, not counting his leg, Strike was looking at the most stitches he’d ever received in one go.

“You did say not to call you when I needed saving.” Strike drawled. The painkillers for his deeply bruised back were kicking in nicely.

“Keep it up Gooner and you won’t get so much as a paper clip out of me ever again.”

“Well, I have enough stationary so-“

“Oh, you fucking sarcastic bastar-“

“Boys!” Robin called, a hand up between them from where she sat on the side of Strike’s bed. Wardle just glared at Strike, becoming all the more infuriated by his raised eyebrows and slightly glazed look.

“Twat.” Wardle said under his breath in one last dig before he pulled his folder from the table and held out a sheet of paper.

“I just came from Switch’s place. Same deal as Ab’s studio, he paid the landlord cash and gave no ID. Found needles, spoons, tin foil, all your usual heroin accessories as well as what will probably turn out to be sedatives. They’re not in the kind of container that comes from a pharmacy.”

Strike just scowled and started to pick at the thick bandage around his arm, faintly pink along the inside where his arm had continued to bleed.

“Any sign of anyone else living there?” Robin asked.

“Not yet. Barely sign of him to be honest. I mean, yeah there’s all that creepy fucking collage and photograph shit but no food, barely any clothes. There are books everywhere though and old magazines. Found newspaper clippings with stories about you.” Wardle explained. Of the ones he had seen they varied from cases Strike had solved to Charlotte Campbell’s wedding.

“So he might be living somewhere else. With someone else.” Robin said, looking at Strike.

“Like who?” Wardle asked.

“Whittaker’s grandparents raised him. The grandfather is a knighted diplomat, complete tosser, probably has more than one place. I haven’t talked to him since mum died though so you’re on your own with that.” Strike supplied.

Wardle looked at Robin and raised an eyebrow before turning back to Strike. “Hope that confession wasn’t too painful for you.”

“Piss off.” Strike said as he shifted in the bed and winced. Wardle just smirked.

“Got some of your test results back too, turns out the sedative used on you was Eszopiclone, or Lunesta to you and I. Side effects if used incorrectly include memory loss, behavioural changes, hallucinations,” Wardle explained, averting his eyes as Strike looked at Robin and then the floor, “so any thoughts you had about Arsenal going top of the table next year can be explained by that.” He finished with a slightly smug look on his face.

A memory flashed through Strike’s mind. He had tea at Ab’s studio each time they met and no matter how much he explained the way he took his tea Ab would always hand him one with too much sugar. Sugar to mask the bitter taste that he had noticed in the coffee, he realised, the coffee that he himself had ordered and had taken his eyes off only once when Ab pointed to someone passing outside.

“Right.” Strike said.

“Any progress in finding Ab?” Robin asked.

“No.” Wardle sighed, crossing his arms and titling his head. “I’m gonna need to talk to your sister Lucy, now that I know you’re brother is involved.”

“Half-brother, and no.”

“Strike-“

“She doesn’t know any more than I do. Whatever you need to know you can ask me.”

“That’s not how it works and you know it.” Wardle argued softly. Strike shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Let me talk to her first.” He said and Wardle just took a deep breath, moments from rolling his eyes. “Please Eric? She doesn’t know what’s happened, just let me tell her first.” Strike argued, desperation creeping into his voice as he imagined Lucy’s reaction to everything. A part of him felt pained already.

“Alright. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, after lunch. You have until then.” Wardle acquiesced and Robin gave him a grateful smile.

Robin left to call Ilsa and Nick and update them while Wardle settled himself on a stool and took Strike’s statement. When she returned, after a quick detour to a vending machine, she found Wardle hovering outside the bay where Strike had been brought.

“The doc is in there stitching him up.” He explained when he saw her questioning gaze.

“Oh, right.” Robin said, shoving the Mars bar and Twix in her coat pocket.

“I’m gonna give him a lift home, so you can head off.”

“You offered Strike a lift?” Robin’s voice betrayed her disbelief.

“Course not. But he guilted me into it by saying you’d had to look after him enough lately.”

“Well I don’t mind.” Robin said, looking past him to the closed blue curtains hiding Strike.

“What?” She asked, catching Wardle rolling his eyes.

“You two.” He said with a smirk. Robin just walked past him and gently pulled the curtain open. A doctor was hunched over Strike’s arm and Robin averted her eyes when she got a glimpse of bloody flesh and the rusty brown disinfect that had dyed his arm.

“Hey.” She whispered before slipping into the cubicle. Strike’s eyes opened and his head rose from the pillow, the doctor just glanced up and then went back to what she was doing.

“Hey, I-“ Strike began.

“Don’t worry, Wardle told me. I’m going, I just thought you might want these for the journey.” She said as she slipped the chocolate bars into his hand where it lay on the bed, her hand lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“Thanks.” He smiled, before wincing at the strange sensation of pulling coming from his arm.

“Well, I’ll, um, see you later.” She said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. He noticed her hands still had a red tinge to them, no doubt from his blood, and he felt a spike of guilt in his stomach.

“Yeah.” He said as she left, giving one last glance his way before disappearing.

Strike looked back around at his arm, trying to take his mind off his stiffening back which was screaming at him to move. The doctor’s eyes drifted up to look at him from where she was hunched over, halfway through stitching his wound, and he saw her eyebrow raise sharply reminding him of Ilsa.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

* * *

“Christ, you fat bastard, how much do you weigh?” Wardle exclaimed as he removed himself from under Strike’s arm and deposited him on the bed, earning a groan and a hiss from Strike.

For once Strike was slightly regretting how lucky he had ben injury-wise, if only for the fact that a more serious injury would have earned him morphine. He had looked like a nursing home escapee trying to get into Wardle’s car and his back spasmed for the entire ride home. Miraculously Strike didn’t have a concussion but after finally closing his wound the doctor had debated about admitting him for observation anyway. He had put on his best act and lied about having a nurse for a girlfriend at home as Wardle rolled his eyes and then threatened to expose him as a fraud.

“I’m on a diet actually.” Strike said as he slowly pulled his legs onto the bed and shoved a pillow behind his back. He didn’t look forward to the contortions his back was going to have to make to get his leg off later.

“Well, it’s not working.” Wardle said and Strike couldn’t help but laugh in his tired and drugged state, even if it sent a spike of pain through his tender ribs and back. Wardle watched as he squirmed in an effort to find a position that eased the dragging feeling on his back muscles.

“We’ll find Switch.” Wardle said, his face serious when Strike stilled.

“He’s gone.” Strike said with a shake of his head. Wardle just sighed and looked away, his eyes scanning the countertop of Strike’s kitchen.

“We’ll find him. Now that we know we’re looking for him.” Wardle said pointedly with a raised eyebrow and Strike just held his gaze defiantly.

They both looked at the door as the steps groaned in the usual spots and then Robin’s head was peaking around the door.

“Hi.” She said, eyes glancing between Cormoran and Wardle. Wardle’s mouth sharpened into a smirk as he looked back at Strike on the bed.

“I’m just leaving.” He declared before turning back to Strike.

“I forgot to give this to you earlier. Found it in the middle of one of Switch’s books and thought you might want it.” Wardle said, dropping a photograph onto the bed beside Strike.

The edges were torn and there was a scratch across the front but Leda was looking at him with a beaming smile and an arm outstretched towards the camera. He’s in the background with his mouth open as he shouts something and his cheeks full as he suppresses a smile, eyes glinting with amusement. Lucy took the picture, using up a disposable camera that aunt Joan had bought her in the space of a few hours and this was the last image on the roll of film; Leda running towards her playfully in an attempt to wrestle the camera from her before she used up the last shot. They’re in a garden in Camberwell in the middle of summer, Strike’s bike leaning against a wall in the background and Lucy’s magazines spread out in the grass. In a few minutes an ice cream van will pass and they’ll sit in the sun, Lucy with green lips from a Twister, him with a red mouth from a Dracula lolly and Leda indulging in a Cornetto for the first time that summer. It’s a strange thing, to look at a picture of himself and see someone so oblivious to everything that is to come.

“Thanks.” Strike said quietly.

There’ll be another photograph somewhere of Cormoran and Lucy both standing side by side, Lucy smiling sweetly in a denim dress with red roses all over it that fit better the previous summer and him mid eye-roll at being forced into a picture with his little sister for the sixth time that day. Regretfully there are not many pictures of the three of them during the happy times.

Robin’s hand came to his shoulder and Strike caught sight of blood on her sleeve in his periphery.

Red.

Lucy’s dress.

_“He said it was red roses, that she loved red roses.”_

“Cormoran?” She said quietly beside him.

“Yeah?” He said, looking up and Robin gave him a lopsided smile.

Wardle pulled out his phone as it buzzed.

“Vanessa found a notebook under Switch’s mattress. Most of the pages are ripped out but she found this in the back.” He said, walking back to Strike and holding out his phone to show him the picture Vanessa has sent.

It was a page like the one the poem he’d found in his cigarettes had been written on.

“Do you recognise any of these numbers?” Wardle asked him.

There was a list of numbers, some incomplete and other complete ones that meant nothing to him, but there on the seventh row was one that he recognised. It had been written in his own notebook, the one he kept as a teenager with all of his and Lucy’s important information, Leda being somewhat unreliable when it came to personal admin. Underneath the number that would get them through to the Royal Military Police in an emergency when uncle Ted was working and above the contact details for Ilsa’s mum lay Rick Fantoni’s landline number.

“Strike?” Wardle pressed.

“No.”

His mind stumbled slowly back to their flat in Clapham, Fantoni towering above him with a jigsaw in his hands, a look of disgust thrown at Leda before smiling at Lucy, an oblivious six year old dancing around with an Easter Bunny in her hands.

“You sure?” Wardle asked, his features darkening.

“Yes.”

“Right. Well, I should head off then.” He said and Strike missed the weighted glance that passed between Wardle and Robin.

With that the detective was gone, his light, even tread disappearing down the stairs.

“How’s the back?” Robin asked as she walked over but Strike didn’t look up, instead lost in his own world.

“Cormoran?” She said, coming to stand in front of him and catching his attention.

“What?”

“How’s the back?” Robin said, wary suddenly and suspicion growing.

“Fine. Ask me again when the painkillers have worn off.” His mouth turned up but the smile never made it to his face and his mouth opened again but shut before any words left it.

“Whose number did you recognise?” Robin asked, voice steady and measured.

“I di-“

“Don’t lie to me. We’re partners, remember?” She said forcefully. He looked up, let out a long breath and Robin waited as the moment stretched on.

“It was Fantoni’s number.”

“Lucy’s dad?” Robin blurted out in shock.

“Yeah. He’s had the same landline number since we were teenagers.”

“Why would Switch have his number?”

Strike just looked up at her and anyone else would have missed the slight changes in his features that belayed anger, confusion and devastation. Robin, however, did not.

“He wouldn’t.” She said quietly, a thought of horror dawning on her.

“No.” Strike said numbly. He wanted, with every fibre of his being, for his mind to stop. For it to stop pulling memories to the fore, to stop laying out the evidence in front of him, to stop foraging for clues in disregard to the pain it would bring.

He felt Robin’s hand take his as the inquisition began and bitter souvenirs unravelled; Fantoni’s looming presence when they were removed from the commune, the day Cormoran came home from school to find a drunk Leda crying on the couch, Switch screaming from his bassinet and Lucy gone, uncle Ted’s face as Fantoni arrived for the first day of the court case against Whittaker, his arm around Lucy and eyes watching Cormoran.

_“… the wrong side of the dock…”_

_“He’s a murderer Cormoran.”_ Those had been Fantoni’s words to him when they met in the bathroom during a break in proceedings. They had returned to the court room and Whittaker, as if seeing Fantoni for the first time, had darkened his eyes and snarled, something Cormoran had thought directed at him.

_“He said it was red roses, that she loved red roses.”_

The last memory to reveal itself felt like more of an imagined recollection, Cormoran being too young at the time to still have a clear memory of it. Flower petals fell from the sky as Leda danced around the room and bopped him on the nose with a red rose as he sat giggling in the middle of her double bed with baby Lucy beside him.

“He always brought mum red roses.” Strike said, almost to himself but Robin’s breath hitched as she heard him. Switch’s words raced through her mind with sickening clarity.

_“He said it was red roses, that she loved red roses…”_

_“He told me he did it, that’s why it had to be the same way…”_

_“He said you were always looking at the wrong side…”_

_“It was the other one…”_

“Cormoran?” It was Robin’s shocked voice that pulled him back.

“You can’t tell anyone.” Strike said quickly.

“Cormoran, if he-“

“He didn’t.” Strike said forcefully as the image of a seven year old Lucy crying on the ground, tangled in her skipping rope filled his mind. He thought then of her perfectly ordinary life as a wife and mother and the diligence with which she protected its normality.

Robin just looked at him, her face full of anguish at the dark and broken look on his face and then he squeezed her hand.

“It’s just a phone number. Switch was probably trying to find Lucy.” He said and Robin tilted her head in scepticism.

“Cormoran.” She said softly.

“Lucy doesn’t need to know.” He said, each word weighted with a resolute heaviness.

“But Leda… Cormoran, what if-“

“Whittaker killed her.” He said, pulling himself forward with a pained wince. “Promise me? Promise me you won’t tell Wardle.” He asked her. Robin looked away and then remembered that this wasn’t just a case, this was his life and Lucy’s.

“Cormoran-“

“Please.” He said, his eyes having never before looked so wide or his face so young.

“If you let me help.”

He shook his head and started to protest but Robin pulled his hand into both of hers and went on, “I know you Cormoran. You’re not going to let this go. I won’t tell anyone, not Wardle or Lucy, not even Nick or Ilsa, but only if you let me help you.”

“Why?” He asked.

A beat passed, Robin looking deeply into Cormoran’s eyes and hoped that he saw in hers what she could see in his.

“Because I care about you. You _know_ that.”

He looked away and nodded, pursing his lips and taking a breath before turning back to her.

“Ok.” He said simply. Her hand was warm in his.

“Ok.” She repeated. With a simple nod she pulled her hand from his and walked over to the tiny kitchen.

“You promised me you’d run.” Strike said, almost absentmindedly, as he watched her, referencing Robin’s earlier refusal to leave him when Switch turned violent.

“Actually I never said the words ‘I promise you’.” Robin countered and Strike just shook his head. It was nearing the day when he’d have to admit defeat in trying to keep Robin Ellacott wrapped up in bubble wrap.

“Do you want your usual?” She asked and, head spinning from the competing emotions he had felt in the last few minutes, he just looked at her.

“It’s Friday night.” She explained, showing him the takeaway menu in her hand that she had removed from the door of his fridge.

“Curry night.” He replied.

“So, usual?” Robin repeated.

“Sure.”

When she finished calling the small, local curry house that Strike frequented, Robin stood, opened the fridge and grabbed one of his beers. He watched her return, glancing at the beer in her hand.

“Dream on. This is mine, you’re not mixing beer and painkillers. One overdose is enough for a lifetime.” She said with a smile.

“Agreed” Strike said, his own smile faltering slightly.

“Oh!” Robin blurted out and after putting the bottle of beer on his bedside cabinet she turned away.

He watched with a quizzical eye as she moved past the tiny kitchen and disappeared into the even smaller alcove with slanted ceiling that held his single armchair and outdated television. He heard a creak and a bang and then Robin was walking backwards towards him with cables trailing from the television in her hands.

“What are you-“ His question ended as she plonked the TV down on the floor in front of the bed, far enough away to make it viewable from where he lay, and went back for the remote.

“I heard two guys talking about the Arsenal game on the tube.” She explained as she turned the TV on and started scanning the channels for the match.

Strike eased himself up against his pillows and then Robin was climbing onto the end of his bed again and settling herself with her legs crossed. Strike felt his whole body tense, like he was a teenager again with a girl in his room for the first time. The bottle of beer was balanced between her legs as she looked over at the TV screen before turning back to look at him.

“How did you know it was Switch? You were so certain.” Robin asked as she took a swig of beer.

“I dunno, honestly it just…. felt like him. I can’t explain it. Maybe there was some divine intervention.” Strike said and Robin raised her eyebrows.

“You going to start using tarot cards during interviews now?” She asked, making him laugh and then wince when his back gave out about it.

“Maybe.” He teased. “There was something I realised, when Wardle showed me that photograph.”

“Yeah?”

“Switch thought mum’s favourite flowers were roses. Do you remember the red roses that were sent to the office during the Donald Laing case?”

“They were from Matt.” Robin argued.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No.” Robin said, realisation dawning on her. “I never looked at the card either, just threw them straight in the bin.”

“Well I might have peeked at the card.” Strike admitted and Robin raised an eyebrow. “It was blank. But maybe-“

“Maybe it was Switch?” Robin finished his thought. “He was trying to reach out?”

“Maybe so.” Strike agreed and thought again of the red rose petals falling from the sky, coming to rest in his hair and on top of Lucy, who lay with a teething ring in her mouth.

“To him the roses might have been the most obvious of clues, he might have believed I’d realise straight away and find him. _If_ he sent them.”

Robin found herself looking around the room, imaging Switch in her place sitting on the end of the bed and watching Strike in a drug induced sleep.

“Shanker said he’d be around tomorrow. He sounded angry with himself for losing Switch.” Robin said and Strike just nodded. Shanker had chased Switch back towards Hampstead Heath and then lost him in the crowds. Most likely the younger man had disappeared into the forested area.

“He seemed young. A bit lost really.” Robin quietly pondered.

“Mm.”

“I almost feel sorry for him.” Robin added.

“He almost killed me. Twice.” Strike exclaimed.

“Well that was bad obviously-“

“I’m glad you think so.” He interrupted her and then smiled.

They sat together watching the match and waiting for their food, his mind drifting and his attention returning each time Robin groaned or gasped as a goal went wide and a free kick was missed. By the time their food came Strike’s back had him lying awkwardly, turned slightly sideways so Robin was on his inside and he had to crane his neck to watch the TV.

“I was right about aberration after.” Strike said as he pulled himself up as Robin piled their plates with food.

“How?” Robin asked, her brows furrowed.

“Well he obviously didn’t mean it as a photography term. ‘Aberrare’, to stray or wander, do wrong. Not to sound like a Jedi but Switch had clearly strayed from the usual non-fratricide path.”

“Oh that is not what it meant. Ab was talking about photography.” Robin’s voice had risen in disbelief and Strike felt a flush of happiness as she became animated.

“Maybe.” He said, failing to suppress a smug smile.

“He was!” Robin exclaimed and then threw a naan at him, getting tiny herb bits all over his shirt.

“Oi!”

“Well it’s ruined anyway.” She said, pointing a finger in the direction of the dried blood stains on his sleeve and side as she passed him his plate of food. He reached across with his good arm and then winced as his weight shifted and put pressure on his new stitches, the anaesthetic in that area wearing away.

Even with the dull aches and pains making themselves known he couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face, eyes crinkling and cheeks rounding.

_She’s perfect darling._

He felt suddenly on the crest of a wave, as if something was building in the room and he wondered if the painkillers they’d given him at the hospital were stronger than he’d thought. His life fell away, the past week and a half fell away and all the years before it. All he saw was Robin, the person who had appeared in his life when all hope seemed once again to be lost.

“What?” Robin asked in response to his widening smile, a forkful of rice hovering in her hand.

“Nothing.”

Strike, oblivious to the penalty that Arsenal were preparing to take, watched as Robin stretched her legs out and pulled herself up to lie beside him. The light was fading but the last of the evening sun was caught in her hair.

_One day you’ll feel like that about somebody._

“Nick and Ilsa are going away next weekend.” He said, voice unnaturally tentative.

“Oh yeah, Ilsa mentioned. Oxfordshire, right?” She said as she grabbed the naan from his plate that she had earlier thrown.

“Right. Just us for curry night then.”

“Mm.” Robin hummed, her eyes trailing across to his legs.

_I think we both know what we want from each other_

“We could go somewhere, if you want to.” To Strike, it felt like he’d just cut off a piece of himself and left it under a spotlight.

Robin inhaled slowly and then looked directly at him. “As friends? Getting food together?” She asked, eyes now on his. She gave nothing away but a voice somewhere told him to press on.

“No.” He said simply.

Her face morphed into the most delicate smile he’d ever seen.

“Good.” Robin said, her voice light and sweet and that one word acting like a key to all the hope Cormoran’s mind could contain.

“Good.” He repeated, quieter and with his lungs slowly remembering how to work. He was grateful when she looked away and his wide eyes and open mouth had a chance to recover.

“This is nice.” Robin said, her arm brushing his as they sat side by side, food balanced on their thighs and legs outstretched.

He hummed in agreement, a smile thrown her way, and in his tiny attic flat with its bare walls, secondhand furniture and outdated appliances Strike felt the beginning of a blaze settle just within his grasp.

**(I think I made you up inside my head.)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [THE SCREEN FADES TO BLACK AND BLUE OYSTER CULT BEGINS TO PLAY]
> 
> So.................
> 
> Yup......................
> 
> I hope people aren't disappointed with how everything came to a close. As I have said, this 'multi-chapter case fic' thing has nearly KILLED me and I did struggle a lot. Me and my brain don't often work well together and I'm as amazed as anyone else that I managed to finish this 😂 All of your wonderful comments really meant a lot to me and the reaction to this was more than I could have hoped for. In turn, I was then pretty worried that it'd turn out to be a disappointment (hello to me and my self-doubt, lol).
> 
> Almost spoiler: you don't even know how close I was to killing Switch and really ratcheting up the Strike angst. BUT I sort of fell in love slightly with him as a character. (*whispers* I may or may not already have a sequel in mind with a Fantoni/Strike/Switch showdown *runs away*)
> 
> Once again, thank you all for making this a lovely little fandom. *bows out*


End file.
